"Yes, Mr. Wray. I'm sorry I can't come to the studio."
"Oh! so it's you! You can't come—what? Then you needn't come any more."
"Yes; that's what I thought. I see now that—that I can't."
"Well, of all—" He broke off in his expostulation to say: "Jennie, for God's sake, what's the matter with you? What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid of anything, Mr. Wray; but there's a good deal the matter which I can't explain on the telephone."
"Do you want me to come over there?"
"No; you couldn't do any good."
"Is it money?"
"No." She remembered the accumulation of untouched bills and checks in her glove-and-handkerchief box upstairs. "I've got plenty of money. There's nothing you could do, thank you."
There was a pause before he said: