“No,” said the girl who opened the door, “there ain’t nobody by that name livin’ here.”

And at the next door:  “Mrs. Dale?  No.  This is Mrs. Mahoney’s house.”

It was at the sixth house, where some dusty pansies were drying up under the little bay window, that a woman whose red, soapy hands had just left the wash tub, said: 

“Some folks with that name lived here before I took the house.  But they moved away.  She was real nice; used to give candy to the children round here.  She was a widow lady.  She told me her husband’s name was Joseph.  Was it her you was looking for?”

“I don’t know her husband’s name,” Eleanor said.

“Her baby had measles when mine did,” the woman went on; “I lived across the street, then.  But I took a fancy to the house, because she’d papered the parlor so handsome, so I moved in the first of May, when she got out.”

A little cold, prickling thrill ran down Eleanor’s back.  She had told herself that “Maurice had a secret”; but she had not really believed that the secret was about Mrs. Dale.  She had been sure, in the bottom of her heart, that she would be able to “prove” that the woman he had been talking to that day was not Mrs. Dale.

Now, she had proved—­that she was.

Eleanor swayed a little, and put her hand out to clutch at the porch railing.  The woman exclaimed: 

“Come in and sit down!  I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Eleanor followed her into the kitchen and sat down on a wooden chair.  She was silent, but she whitened slowly.  The mistress of the house, scared at her pallor, ran to draw a tumbler of water from the faucet in the sink; she held it to Eleanor’s lips, apologizing for her wet hands: 

“I was tryin’ to get my wash out....  Where do you feel bad?”

“It’s so hot, that’s all,” Eleanor said, faintly:  “I—­I’m not ill—­thank you very much.”  She tried to smile, but the ruthless glare of sunshine through the open kitchen door showed her face strained, as if in physical suffering.

“I’m awfully sorry I can’t tell you where Mrs. Dale lives,” the woman said, sympathetically.  “Was she a friend of yours?” Eleanor shook her head.  “There!  I’ll tell you who maybe could tell you—­the doctor.  He took care of her baby.  Doctor Nelson—­”

“Nelson!”

“He’s the hospital doctor now.  Why don’t you ask him?”

“Thank you,” said Eleanor vaguely.  She rose, saying she felt better and was much obliged.  Then she went out on to the porch, and down the broken steps to the windy scorching street.

She was certain:  Maurice had gone to Medfield to see Mrs. Dale...

Why?