For a moment he hesitated.  Then he sat down at a desk.

“Mrs. Dunlap,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

He pulled a piece of printed paper from the desk, filled in a few blanks, then turned to Kitty Carr, handing her a pen.

“Sign here,” he said brusquely.

Constance bent over and read.  It was a form of release: 

“I, Kitty Carr, residing at—­East —­th Street, single, age twenty-seven years, in consideration of the sum of One Dollar, hereby admit taking the following property... without having paid therefor and with intent not to pay therefor, and by reason of the withdrawal of the complaint of larceny, of which I am guilty, I hereby remise, release, and forever discharge the said Stacy Co. or its representatives from any claims, action, or causes of action which I may have against the Stacy Co. or its representatives or agents by reason of the withdrawal of said charge of larceny and failure to prosecute.”

“Signed, Kitty Carr.”

“Now, Kitty,” soothed Constance, as the trembling signature was blotted and added to a photograph which had quietly been taken, “they are going to let you go this time—­with me.  Come, straighten your hat, wipe your eyes.  You must take me home with you—­where we can have a nice long talk.  Remember, I am your friend.”

On the way uptown and across the city the girl managed to tell most of her history.  She came from a family of means in another city.  Her father was dead, but her mother and a brother were living.  She herself had a small annuity, sufficient to live on modestly, and had come to New York seeking a career as an artist.  Her story, her ambitions appealed to Constance, who had been somewhat of an artist herself and recognized even in talking to the girl that she was not without some ability.

Then, too, she found that Kitty actually lived, as she had said, in a cozy little kitchenette apartment with two friends, a man and his wife, both of whom happened to be out when they arrived.  As Constance looked about she could see clearly that there was indeed no adequate reason why the girl should steal.

“How do you feel?” asked Constance when the girl had sunk half exhausted on a couch in the living room.

“Oh, so nervous,” she replied, pressing her hands to the back of her head, “and I have a terrible headache, although it is a little better now.”

They had talked for perhaps half an hour, as Constance soothed her, when there was the sound of a key in the door.  A young woman in black entered.  She was well-dressed, in fact elegantly dressed in a quiet way, somewhat older than Kitty, but by no means as attractive.

“Why—­hello, Kitty,” she cried, “what’s the matter!”

“Oh, Annie, I’m so unstrung,” replied the girl, then recollecting Constance, added, “let me introduce my friend, Mrs. Dunlap.  This is Mrs. Annie Grayson, who has taken me in as a lodger and is ever so kind to me.”