“Indeed,” said Trent suspiciously; “who was she?”

“Her name is Christina Coles, and she came from Clarke County.  I knew her grandfather.”

“Thank Heaven!” breathed Trent, and his voice betrayed his happy reassurance.

“She’s really very pretty—­all the Coles were handsome—­her great-aunt was once a famous beauty.  Do you remember my speaking of her—­Miss Betty Coles?” He shook his head, and she proceeded with her reminiscence.

“Well, she was said to have received fifty proposals before her twenty-fifth birthday, but she never married.  On her last visit to me, when she was a very old lady, I asked her why—­and her answer was:  ’Pure fastidiousness.’” She had picked up her purple shawl, and the long ivory knitting needles began to click.

“But I’m more interested in the young lady of the elevator—­What is she like?”

“Not the beauty that Betty was, but still very pretty, with the same blue eyes and brown hair, which she wears parted exactly as her aunt did fifty years ago.  I fear, though,” she finished in a whisper, “I really fear—­that she writes.”

“Is that so?  Did she tell you?”

“Not in words, but she carried a parcel exactly like your manuscripts, and she spoke—­oh, so seriously—­of her work.  She spoke of it quite as if it were a baby.”

“By Jove!” he gasped, and after a moment, “I hope at any rate that she will be a comfort.”

With her knitting still in her hands, she rose and went to the window, where she stood placidly staring at the sunlight upon the blackened chimney-pots.  “At least I can talk to her about her aunt,” she returned.  Then her gaze grew more intense, and she almost flattened her nose against the pane.  “I declare I wonder what that woman is doing out there on that fire-escape,” she observed.

After he had got into his overcoat Trent came back to give her a parting kiss.  “Find out by luncheon time,” he returned gaily.

When presently he entered the elevator he found it already occupied by a young lady whom he recognised from his mother’s description as Christina Coles.  She was very pretty, but, even more than by her prettiness, he was struck by her peculiar steadfastness of look, as of one devoted to a single absorbing purpose.  He noticed, too, that the little tan coat she wore was rather shabby, and that there was a small round hole in one of the fingers of her glove.  When she spoke, as she did when leaving the key with the man in charge of the elevator, her voice sounded remarkably fresh and pleasant.  They left the house together, but while she walked rapidly toward Broadway he contented himself with strolling leisurely along Fourth Avenue, where he bent a vacant gaze on the objects assembled in the windows of dealers in “antiques.”