“You all right, now?” he asked, as he looked at the brightly-lighted entrance of the apartment house.
“Oh, yes,” said Helen, glancing at the number to be sure it was 783. “This is Ninety-fifth Street, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Ma’am,—good night.”
“Good night and thank you.”
The hansom drove away through the storm and as Helen approached the house, the door was swung open by a liveried doorman.
She went in, smiling with gladness to be once more indoors amid light and warm surroundings, and going at once to the elevator, she said, “Third floor, please.”
To the maid who answered her ring at the door of the apartment, she nodded pleasantly, and said: “I’m Miss Barlow.”
Then she looked around for her friend, Millicent Wheeler.
But she saw no sign of her, and instead, a strange lady came from one of the rooms, and stared at Helen.
“What is it?” she said, politely but coldly.