“I am Miss Barlow,” repeated Helen, “to see Mrs. Wheeler.”
“Mrs. Wheeler? There is no such person in this house.”
“What! Isn’t this 783, Ninety-fifth?”
“Yes; are you looking for some friend?” The voice was kinder now, for Helen’s was an appealing personality, and she was evidently in a quandary, but still the strange hostess did not invite her guest to sit down.
“Yes; oh, what can be the trouble? I’m to visit Mrs. Charles Wheeler, and her address is this house,—but I’m sure she said third floor.”
“There’s no Mrs. Wheeler in this house at all, that I know of. You must have the wrong number.”
“No; I’m sure of the number.”
“May I ask your name?”
“I’m Helen Barlow, and I live in Philadelphia. I’m visiting friends in the city, and I’m to spend tonight with another friend. Oh, what shall I do?”
“I don’t see what you can do, but stay here till morning. It’s nearly eight o’clock now, and I can’t send any one out in a storm like this!”