“You’re not looking well to-day, dear,” her mother had said.  “Stay in bed and rest and join us for tea if you like.”

Before she had opportunity to tell what she had seen, her mother was gone, but Jane had found it impossible to obey her well-meant injunction.  She rose and dressed, her mind busy all the while with the problem of what her duty was.  As she donned her clothing she paused from time to time to listen for sounds from the next apartment.

What was her neighbor doing now?  Had he read of the discovery of the man’s body in the street?  Perhaps he had fled already?  Not a sound was to be heard there.  He did not look in the least like what Jane imagined a murderer would, yet certainly the circumstances pointed all too plainly to his guilt.  She had seen two men dash around the corner, one in pursuit of the other.  One of them had come back alone.  Not long afterward a body—­the body of the other man—­had been found with a bullet in his heart.  It must have been a murder.

What ought she to do about it?  Was it her duty to tell her mother and Dad about what she had seen?  Mother, she knew, would be horrified and would caution her to say nothing to any one, but Dad was different.  He had strict ideas about right and justice.  He would insist on hearing every word she had to tell.  More than likely he would decide that it was her duty to give the information to the authorities.  Her face blanched at the thought.  She could not do that.  She pictured to herself the notoriety that would necessarily ensue.  She saw herself being hounded by reporters, she imagined her picture in the papers, she heard herself branded as “the witness in that murder case,” she depicted herself being questioned by detectives and badgered by lawyers.

No, she decided, it would be best for her never to tell a soul, not even her parents.  In persistent silence lay her safest course.  After all she had not witnessed the commission of the crime.  She was not even sure that the man found dead had been one of the two she had watched from her window.  If she saw the body she would not be able to identify it.  She was not even certain in her own mind that the man next door had done the shooting, however suspicious his actions may have appeared to her.  Besides, he did not look in the least like a murderer.  He was too well-dressed.

In an effort to put the whole thing out of her mind she tried to read, but was unable to keep her thoughts from wandering.  She sat down at the piano, but music failed to interest or soothe her.  She mussed over some unanswered notes in her desk but could not summon up enough concentration of mind to answer them.  Restless and fidgety, unable to keep her thoughts from the unusual occurrences that had disturbed her ordinarily too peaceful life, she decided to take a walk until it was time to keep her appointment.  Something—­force of habit probably—­led her to the shopping district.  With still half an hour to kill, she went into a little specialty shop to examine some knitting bags displayed in the window.