Somehow this piteous tale failed of conviction. For one thing the teller, in the one brief glimpse he had had of her, had seemed much too radiant and blooming to be the victim of so terrible a fate. Moreover, she had seemed to tell it with a certain gusto that suggested the pride of authorship. It might be true, but Greg resolved to keep an open mind.
"Why don't you throw up the window yonder and call for help?" he asked.
"They're locked."
"Windows are never locked on the outside," he said dryly. "You could hang from the sill and drop without danger. It can't be more than twelve feet or so to the ground. And climb over the fence into one of the other back yards. Or if you couldn't get over the fence you could scream for help until the neighbors rescued you."
"People don't want to rescue one like me," she said mournfully.
"Nonsense! Times have changed. They're crazy about it nowadays. Cut me loose, and I'll undertake to get you out."
"But I'm afraid of you. Who are you? Tell me truly."
"Elmer Fishback," said Greg, grinning in the dark.
"Who sent you here, really?"
"I told you. A fare who picked me up. I don't know his name."