“I’ll take a chance,” he said. “Which is her room?”
“First one to the right at the head o’ the stairs. You’ll hear her snifflin’, most likely. Sure you wouldn’t rather see one of the other girls?”
“Quite sure,” said Philip, and he ran up the carpeted stair.
On the upper landing he had no difficulty in finding the right door. It opened into a room lighted by a single singing gas jet. Lying face downward on the bed was a girl, “little” only by comparison with the gross-bodied woman down-stairs who had used the word. He had a glimpse of a swollen, tear-stained face, the face of a frightened animal, lifted at the moment of his entrance, only to be buried in the pillows again when she saw him. He closed the door noiselessly and drew up a chair.
“You needn’t be afraid of me,” he began. “I haven’t come here to make things worse for you. I’m here to help you, if you want to be helped.”
The girl turned her face to the wall and sobbed afresh.
“You’re lying to me—everybody’s lied to me. She sent you up—I know she did!”
“No,” he denied gently; “I came because I knew you were needing a friend—a real friend, I mean. Don’t be afraid of me. Sit up here and tell me about it.”
She obeyed the quiet authority in his voice, sitting dishevelled on the bed’s edge and wiping her swollen eyes with a balled and tear-dampened handkerchief. It was the commonplace story too often repeated, of a country girl dissatisfied with the round of farm life; of the lure of the city; and, finally, of the persuasion of the tempter who had started her on the downward road and finished by pretending to find her employment in Denver.
Philip heard the story through to its pathetic end. There was the stamp of truth on every part of the ill-worded confession. It was plainly evident that the girl was not yet old enough in guile to fabricate such a tale on the spur of the moment.