I mounted the stairs. The landing at the top was dark, but the door at the rear was ajar. I knocked. A voice, the same voice I had heard before, bade me come in. I entered the room.
It was a dingy little room, sparely furnished, with a bed and two chairs, a dilapidated washstand and a battered bureau. I noticed these afterwards. Just then my attention was centered upon the occupant of the room, a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, dark-haired, dark-eyed, slender and graceful. She was standing by the bureau, resting one hand upon it, and gazing at me, with a strange expression, a curious compound of fright, surprise and defiance. She did not speak. I was embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. “I am afraid there is some mistake. I came here in answer to a letter written by a Francis Morley, who is—well, I suppose he is a distant relative of mine.”
She stepped forward and closed the door by which I had entered. Then she turned and faced me.
“You are an American,” she said.
“Yes, I am an American. I—”
She interrupted me.
“Do you—do you come from—from Bayport, Massachusetts?” she faltered.
I stared at her. “Why, yes,” I admitted. “I do come from Bayport. How in the world did you—”
“Was the letter you speak of addressed to Captain Barnabas Cahoon?”