It was five minutes to four when she purchased her ticket to New York. To her relief she had seen no one she knew. When the train pulled into the station she was the first person to board it. She took a seat on the side of the car farthest from the platform, so she did not see a slim hurrying girl's figure rush madly down the platform, just as the train was about to start, and swing herself up the car steps on the last second, heedless of the warning expostulation of the porter.
Torn with remorse for the past, fearful of the future, which, to her overwrought imagination, crouched like a huge black monster ready to spring upon her and engulf her in its cruel jaws, Evelyn watched the swiftly passing landscape with unseeing eyes. When a voice from the seat behind her suddenly addressed her with, "Good evening, Miss Ward," she half sprang to her feet in blind terror. Turning, she found herself looking into the keen, dark eyes of Kathleen West, the newspaper girl.
"Oh—good evening," she faltered.
"Going to New York?" was the brisk question.
Evelyn nodded.
"I'm coming into your seat. I hate riding alone in a train. I'm so glad you are going the whole way."
Evelyn made no reply. She wished Kathleen a thousand miles off.
The newspaper girl scrutinized narrowly her companion's lovely set face. Trained in the study of human nature she had learned to know the outward signs of a perturbed spirit. Her straight brows knit in a puzzled frown. Then, noting that Evelyn had colored hotly under the shrewd fixity of her sharp eyes, she glanced carelessly away.
Neither girl spoke for a little. Evelyn was wondering distractedly how she could escape from Kathleen, when they reached New York, without arousing suspicion on the part of the newspaper girl. Kathleen, whose intuition as well as her eyes told her that all was not well with Evelyn, racked her brain for the words which would tear down the wall of stony reticence which this strange girl had built about herself. Try as she might she could think of no effectual way to begin. Deciding to bide her time she tried to rouse Evelyn's too-apparently flagging spirits by a crisp account of a big newspaper story which she had run to earth during her Easter vacation. At first she met with small success, but as she talked on Evelyn grew interested in spite of herself and began asking half timid, half eager questions about New York. Was it hard to get work there? Could a girl live on six or seven dollars a week in a large city? How did these girls go about it to find positions? In what section of the city did most of the working girls, who had no homes, live?
Kathleen answered her questions imperturbably, telling of her own experience in New York as a beginner of newspaper work. Later Evelyn plied her with countless questions regarding the stage, its advantages and disadvantages. The throb of anxiety in her voice was stronger than her elaborate pretense of indifference. Figuratively, Kathleen pricked up her ears. It was only when they had exhausted the subjects of the working girl and the stage that she launched at Evelyn the seemingly innocent question, "Where are you going to stay in New York, Miss Ward?"