“I waited and waited — for over an hour. She never called.”
“Where,” Bertha asked, “did you call her — at her apartment?”
“No, at the place she was working — the residence of the man she worked for. You know, Milbers.”
“Just how well did you know her?” Bertha asked.
“Oh, quite well — in a way — just by talking with her, though.”
“Just when she’d stop on the street?”
“That’s right.”
“Not much chance to establish an intimate friendship,” Bertha said musingly.
“Oh, we really talked quite a bit, but just a few words at a time. She was one of the brightest spots in my day, and she knew it. Well, when she didn’t call me, I called again and asked for Miss Dell and the person who answered the phone wanted to know if I was a friend of hers and said she was busy. I remember I tried to be funny. I said I was a man who had never seen her in his life and never expected to. Well, they called her to the telephone, and I said, ‘Hello, Miss Dell, this is your blind friend. I wanted to thank you for the music box.’ She said, ‘What music box?’ and I told her the music box she had sent to her friend, the blind beggar. She told me then that she had sent me flowers and was too busy to talk, and hung up. I’ve been wondering if that accident hadn’t affected her memory so she couldn’t remember things, but for some reason she didn’t want people to know about it because there was something she had to say she remembered. Maybe she was a witness to some contract, or perhaps she may have known—”
“Wait a minute,” Bertha interrupted. “Are you certain she sent you the music box?”