“Jan-an,” he said quietly, controllingly, “let me in. You can trust me. Let me in.”
Poor Jan-an was in sore need of someone in whom she might trust and she could not afford to waste time. She raised the sash again, climbed in, and then opened the door. Northrup entered and locked the door after him.
“Now, then,” he said, sitting opposite to the girl who dropped, rather than seated herself, in her old place. “Jan-an, what are you up to?”
To his surprise, the girl burst into tears.
“My God,” she moaned, “what did I have feelin’s for––and no sense? I can’t read!” she blurted. “I can’t read.”
This was puzzling, but Northrup saw that the girl had confidence in him––a desperate, unknowing confidence that had grown slowly.
“Why do you want to read, Jan-an?” he asked in a low, kindly tone.
“I know you ain’t his friend, are you?” The wet, pitiful face was lifted. Old fears and distrust rose grimly.
“Whose?”
“Maclin’s, ole divil-man Maclin?”