“I got ter get my arms around his neck once more ’fore he kills me fer telling,” she answered as she signed her name to the paper and handed it to me.

“Place those arms in that position, Mary, before telling him of your action and all will be well,” I advised of her with much wisdom.

“Will that do, Mister?” she asked with anxiety as I began to fold the paper.

On that paper she had written: 

“Hen Timms had locked me in the room and was forcing me when
Gabe broke in and got me away from him.  He had to bust his
head with a flatiron to make him let go of me.  I am a good
woman. 

                Mary Brown”

“Yes, good Mary, this will shield Timms from that knife, I feel a certainty, and I will send for you and see that you go to an interview with him at ten o’clock of the to-morrow morning.  And now good night, with great respect to you for a brave woman,” I said as I rose to my feet.

“Who are you, Mister, that have spoke to my heart like they ain’t nobody spoke to its suffering yet, though you ain’t said many words and them is curious like?” she asked of me as I prepared to take a hurried departure.

“I am the secretary of the Gouverneur Faulkner, Mary, and—­and—­I know—­how women—­love—­men.  I—­”

“I bet a many of ’em have loved you, God bless your sweet eyes.  Good night, sir!”

And with those kind words from the poor female, who was beginning again to sob but with another motive in her weeping, I took my departure down the street—­or up—­I did not know in just which direction.  I had the intention of returning to the house of Madam Taylor to obtain the Cherry, which I had left standing before her door, and in it convey the message to my Gouverneur Faulkner that should bring relief to his anxiety, but I soon found that I had lost myself upon streets that I had never seen before.

What was it that I should do?  My heart suffered that my Gouverneur Faulkner should not know the relief of that paper I had in the pocket of my dinner coat, but I could not find myself and I did not know exactly what questions I should ask.  Then I bethought me of that telephone, which in America is so much used, but not in France.  I entered into a store for medicines upon the corner of one of the streets in my wandering, looked diligently in a book to find the number for the Mansion of the Gouverneur, and after many tellings of my desire, at last my Gouverneur Faulkner made an answer in my ear that was as beautiful in voice as the words he spoke to me in his presence.

“Well?” he asked of me.

“This is Robert Carruthers who speaks.”

“Oh, all right, youngster.  How did the fatted pie go?”

“That was a very nice pie, Your Excellency, and I have a paper from that Mary Brown concerning the murder of the brother of good Timms for cruelty to Mary.  I wish to give it to you.”