He knew that there could scarcely be a more deserted, isolated spot at this hour of the day than the parlor of the old hotel; and it was as he hoped. The girl had not left it. He descried the slender black figure at once. She was clinging hopelessly with both hands to one of the sodden hangings and sobbing into its heavy folds.
He went up to her. "Pardon me. I've come back. Please don't do that."
She lifted her swollen eyes in surprise for a moment and then hid them.
"What right have you!" she murmured.
"None, but I couldn't do anything else, of course. You can see that. Come over here and sit down, please. Somebody might come in."
The girl controlled her sobs; but kept her face hidden. "I don't want to talk to you," she gasped.
"I know you don't. It makes it rather awkward. Is there any one else in Boston—any one I could go and bring to you?"
She rubbed her soft little curls into the aged hangings in a hopeless negative.
"Say!" said Dunham, in acute protest, "would you mind taking your head out of that curtain? Why, it might give you typhoid fever."
"I've just had it," replied the girl chokingly. "That's why I'm so weak and—and—Oh, if I could just telegraph to Nat!"