"Gladly! What is it?"
"Then if you will collect my mail from the box at the door, after a few days—say, three days—and put it aside for me. You saw me get it to-night, I suppose, and it is a dangerous thing for me to do."
"Where are you—I mean, where are you staying?"
"Don't ask. I am safe. I see the newspapers and I know I am to be hunted down. So I must hide. I cannot face the inquiries—I fear arrest and—and punishment—"
Her tones betrayed guilty fear, and I shuddered at the confirmation of my suspicions. But I would do what I could for her.
"How shall I get your letters?" I asked, and I honestly tried not to disclose my sudden knowledge of her guilt. But her quick ears caught my changed inflection.
"You believe me guilty!" she said, and she stifled a sob. "Yet, still, you will help me! God bless you! Listen, then, for I must stop this talking, it is too desperately dangerous. I will leave the key of the mail box—no, I will send it to you by mail, that will be the safest. Then will you get the letters and put them—where shall I say?"
"I'll mail them to you."
"No, that would never do. You can get into this house, can't you? The police will let you in at any time?"
"Yes, I can probably manage that."