Only the handkerchief refused to be accounted for.

I did not sleep that night.  More and more, as I lay wide-eyed through the night, it seemed to me that Miss Emily must be helped, that she was drifting miserably out of life for need of a helping hand.

Once, toward morning, I dozed off, to waken in a state of terror that I recognized as a return of the old fear.  But it left me soon, although I lay awake until morning.

That day I made two resolves—­to send for Willie and to make a determined effort to see the night telephone-operator.  My letter to Willie off, I tried to fill the day until the hour when the night telephone-operator was up and about, late in the afternoon.

The delay was simplified by the arrival of Mrs. Graves, in white silk gloves and a black cotton umbrella as a sunshade.  She had lost her air of being afraid I might patronize her, and explained pantingly that she had come on an errand, not to call.

“I’m at my Christmas presents now,” she said, “and I’ve fixed on a bedroom set for Miss Emily.  I suppose you won’t care if I go right up and measure the dresser-top, will you?”

I took her up, and her sharp eyes roved over the stairs and the upper hall.

“That’s where Carlo died,” she said.  “It’s never been used since, unless you—­” she had paused, staring into Miss Emily’s deserted bedroom.  “It’s a good thing I came,” she said.  “The eye’s no use to trust to, especially for bureaus.”

She looked around the room.  There was, at that moment, something tender about her.  She even lowered her voice and softened it.  It took on, almost comically, the refinements of Miss Emily’s own speech.

“Whose photograph is that?” she asked suddenly.  “I don’t know that I ever saw it before.  But it looks familiar, too.”

She reflected before it.  It was clear that she felt a sort of resentment at not recognizing the young and smiling woman in the old walnut frame, but a moment later she was measuring the dresser-top, her mind set on Christmas benevolence.

However, before she went out, she paused near the photograph.

“It’s queer,” she said.  “I’ve been in this room about a thousand times, and I’ve never noticed it before.  I suppose you can get so accustomed to a thing that you don’t notice it.”

As she went out, she turned to me, and I gathered that not only the measurement for a gift had brought her that afternoon.

“About those books,” she said.  “I run on a lot when I get to talking.  I suppose I shouldn’t have mentioned them.  But I’m sure you’ll keep the story to yourself.  I’ve never even told Mr. Graves.”

“Of course I shall,” I assured her.  “But—­didn’t the hackman see you packing the books?”

“No, indeed.  We packed them the afternoon after the funeral, and it was the next day that Staley took them off.  He thought it was old bedding and so on, and he hinted to have it given to him.  So Miss Emily and I went along to see it was done right.”