“Rosenthal's, for whom I worked.”
“The large store near by here, on Third Avenue?”
“Yes.”
Father Cruse lapsed once more into silence, absorbed in a study of certain salient points of her person—her way of sitting and of folding her hands, her thin, delicately modelled frame, the pallor of her oval face, with its mobile mouth, the singular whiteness of her teeth, and the blue of her eyes, shaded by the cheap, black-straw hat which hid her forehead. Then he glanced at her feet, one of which protruded from her coarse skirt—no larger than a child's.
When he spoke again, it was in a positive way, as if his inspection had caused him to adopt a definite course which he would now follow. “This old nurse of yours, this woman you called Martha, does she know of any one who could get bail for you? You can only stay here for a few hours, and then they will take you to the Tombs, unless some one can go bail. I know the Rosenthals, and they would, I think, listen to any reasonable proposition.”
“Would they let me go home, then?”
“Yes, until your trial came off.”
She shuddered, hugging herself the closer. Her mind had not gone that far. It was the present horror that had confronted her, not a trial in court.
“Martha has a brother,” she said at last, “who has a business of some kind, and who might help. If you will bring her to me, she can find him.”
“You don't remember what his business is?” he continued.