“You are not Miss Elsworth, the authoress?”
“No.”
“Why did you deceive me?”
“I will tell you. I come to you not as Miss Elsworth, but as Zula, the gypsy girl.”
“What? You are not a gypsy?”
“Yes, I am. Hard it is for me to think so, but the truth must be told. I am Zula, the gypsy. Do you remember years ago of a little, wicked girl, who tried to steal the silver from your mother’s table, and how you kindly set her free?”
“Yes, I remember, though my sister was the one who persuaded me to go after her.”
“But you went; and through your kindness she was released. Do you remember also a time that a young man was hunting near a gypsy camp a few miles from 315 Detroit and found the same little girl being beaten by a fiend; a cruel gypsy?”
“Yes, I remember it well, and knew she was the same one whom I had rescued from the jail.”
“Do you remember of your kindness toward her and how you gave her your address that she might find you if she needed your assistance?”