I went slowly toward home, when I had an inspiration. Hastening into my own house, I flew to the telephone and called Vicky's number, which I knew well. I waited some time for a response, but at last I heard Vicky's voice say, "Who is it, please?" An impulse of protection for her, not for myself, led me to withhold my name. Nor did I speak hers. I said, "This is the man who just left your house. I called up to offer help, if I can render you any." "That's good of you," she returned, in a heartfelt way. "I appreciate such kindness, but you can do nothing--nothing, thank you." "At least, talk to me a few minutes. I'm so anxious about you. You are not implicated in the--in the matter, are you?" "Don't ask me," she murmured, in such a serious voice, that my heart sank. "What I did--or didn't do--must always remain a mystery. I cannot tell you--anything. Don't ask. And, if you would help me, try your best to have inquiries stopped. Can you do this?" "I fear not. But can't I see you--somewhere--and we can talk plainly?" "Do you want to?" "Indeed I do." "Then you do believe in me? Do you hold me blameless?" I hesitated at this. I couldn't lie to her, nor could I rid my mind of the conviction of her guilt I said, "I will, if you assure me that is the truth." "I--I can't do that--good-bye." "Wait a minute. Did you know the expected guest was coming under an assumed name?" "I did not." "Did you know any Somers?" "No." "Did you know--the real man?" "I had met him once, at a dance." "Did you like him?" "I neither liked nor disliked. He was an object of utter indifference to me." "Then why did you--" "Hush! You can never know. I can't tell you--" "Then don't. Please believe I want to befriend you." The agony and fear in Vicky's voice thrilled me, and I desired only to shield and protect her. She was so young and alone. "It is good to have a friendly voice speak to me. But you can only forget me." "No, let me do something definite. Some errand of trust, some matter of confidence--" "Do you mean it? Will you?" "Gladly! What is it?" "Then if you will collect my mail from the box at the door, after a few days--say, three days--and put it aside for me. You saw me get it to-night, I suppose, and it is a dangerous thing for me to do." "Where are you--I mean, where are you staying?" "Don't ask. I am safe. I see the newspapers and I know I am to be hunted down. So I must hide. I cannot face the inquiries--I fear arrest and--and punishment--" Her tones betrayed guilty fear, and I shuddered at the confirmation of my suspicions. But I would do what I could for her. "How shall I get your letters?" I asked, and I honestly tried not to disclose my sudden knowledge of her guilt. But her quick ears caught my changed inflection.