“No, nor even a friend.  I am in their employ just now as a companion to Mrs. Packard.  Her health is not very good, and the mayor is away a great deal.”

“I thought you didn’t belong there.  I know all who belong there.  I’ve little else to do but stare across the street,” she added apologetically and with a deep flush.  “Business is very poor in this shop.”

I was standing directly in front of her.  Turning quickly about, I looked through the narrow panes of the door, and found that my eyes naturally rested on the stoop of the opposite house.  Indeed, this stoop was about all that could be seen from the spot where this woman stood.

“Another eve bent in constant watchfulness upon us,” I inwardly commented.  “We are quite surrounded.  The house should certainly hold treasure to warrant all this interest.  But what could this one-time domestic know of the missing bonds?”

“An old-fashioned doorway,” I remarked.  “It is the only one of the kind on the whole street.  It makes the house conspicuous, but in a way I like.  I don’t wonder you enjoy looking at it.  To me such a house and such a doorway suggest mystery and a romantic past.  If the place is not haunted—­and only a fool believes in ghosts —­something strange must have happened there or I should never have the nervous feeling I have in going about the halls and up and down the stairways.  Did you never have that feeling?”

“Never.  I’m not given to feelings.  I live one day after another and just wait.”

Not given to feelings!  With such eyes in such a face!  You should have looked down when you said that, Bess; I might have believed you then.

“Wait?” I softly repeated.  “Wait for what?  For fortune to enter your little shop-door?”

“No, for my husband to come back,” was her unexpected answer, uttered grimly enough to have frightened that husband away again, had he been fortunate or unfortunate enough to hear her.  “I’m a married woman, Miss, and shouldn’t be working like this.  And I won’t be always; my man’ll come back and make a lady of me again.  It’s that I’m waiting for.”

Here a customer came in.  Naturally I drew back, for our faces were nearly touching.

“Don’t go,” she pleaded, catching me by the sleeve and turning astonishingly pale for one ordinarily so ruddy.  “I want to ask a favor of you.  Come into my little room behind.  You won’t regret it.”  This last in an emphatic whisper.

Amazed at the turn which the conversation had taken and congratulating myself greatly upon my success in insuring her immediate confidence, I slipped through the opening she made for me between the tables serving for a counter and followed her into a room at the rear, which from its appearance answered the triple purpose of sleeping-room, parlor and kitchen.

“Pardon my impertinence,” said she, as she carefully closed the door behind us.  “It’s not my habit to make friends with strangers, but I’ve taken a fancy to you and think you can be trusted.  Will—­” she hesitated, then burst out, “will you do something for me?”