“You wished to see me, sir,” she said, in a voice which was somewhat tremulous, and unquestionably that of one who had suffered much.
“Miss Morales, I believe.”
“That is my name, sir.”
“I owe you an apology for the little deception,” I said, handing her my professional card. “As you see, I am not from the Emporium, although I obtained the address from my friend Mr. Courtney, at that establishment.”
Her hand trembled as she took the card, and she gazed at it fearfully, as though apprehensive of danger.
“Shall we not be seated?” I asked, motioning to a settee. The young woman acquiesced, almost mechanically. Seating myself beside her, I said:
“Miss Morales, while I am a total stranger to you, I wish you would not construe my visit and what I am about to say to you as either impertinent or menacing to yourself. I am here with the best of intentions, but I must discuss with you a matter which, you may be assured, is of vital importance to you. Anything you may say will be treated by me as strictly confidential—as, in short, a professional secret.”
She gazed at me helplessly, with the dumb, haunting dread of impending disaster in her beautiful eyes.
“You are, or have been, I believe,” I continued, “a very close friend of Mr. Hartley Peyton’s.”
The poor girl’s face became ghastly pale, and I feared she was going to faint, as she stammered, weakly,—