Bidding the child hurry, she followed her up the hill, and down the other side to a part of the city with which she was not familiar.

The child cried quietly all the way.

Miss Moreland was too vaguely uncomfortable to talk to her, as they hurried along.

It was in front of a dark house that they finally stopped, and went up the stone steps into a hall so dark that she was obliged to take the child’s dirty cold hands in hers to be sure of the way.

Perhaps it was a foolish distaste for the contact, combined with her frame of mind, which prevented her from noticing facts far from trifles, which came back to her afterward.

She groped her way up the uncarpeted stairs, and followed her still whimpering guide along what seemed an upper corridor, stumbled on what she immediately knew was the sill of a door, lurched forward as the child let go of her hand, and, before she recovered her balance, the door closed behind her.

She called to the child.  No answer.

She felt for the door, found it—­it was locked.

She was in perfect darkness.

A terrible wave of sickness passed over her and left her trembling and weak.

All she had ever heard and found it difficult to believe, coursed through her mind.

The folly of it all was worse.  Fifteen minutes before all had been well with her—­and now—!

Through all her terror one idea was strong within her.  She must keep her head, she must be calm, she must be alertly ready for whatever happened.

The whole thing had seemed so simple.  The crying child had been so plausible!  Yet—­to enter a strange dark house, in an unknown part of the city!  How absurd it was of her!  And that—­after noticing—­as she had—­that, cold as the halls were and uncarpeted, there was neither smell of dirt nor humanity in the air!

While all these thoughts pursued one another through her mind she stood erect just inside the door.

She really dared not move.

Suddenly a fear came to her that she might not be alone.  For a moment that fear dominated all other sensations.  She held her breath, in a wild attempt to hear she knew not what.

It was deathly still!

She backed to the door, and began cautiously feeling her way along the wall.  Inch by inch, she crept round the room, startled almost to fainting at each obstacle she encountered.

It was a large room with an alcove—­a bedroom.  There was but little furniture, one door only, two windows covered with heavy drapery, the windows bolted down, and evidently shuttered on the outside.

When she returned to the door, one thing was certain, she was alone.  The only danger she need apprehend must come through that one door.

Yet she pushed a chair against the wall before she sat down to wait—­for what?  Ah, that was the horror of it!  Was it robbery?  There was her engagement ring, a few ornaments like her watch, and very little money!  Yet, as she had seen misery, even that might be worth while.  But was this a burglar’s method?  A ransom?  That was too mediaeval for an American city.  If neither, then what?