“There’s no person by that name here,” the woman answered.
“Let me in, please,” Sara Wharton said. She put her hand against the door, which yielded a little and then stopped; the woman inside had braced her foot against it.
“She ain’t in.”
“I will wait until she comes, then,” returned the young lady pleasantly.
“I don’t know why you’re comin’ here lookin’ for a girl,” the woman cried out, in sudden, shrewish rage; “this is a respectable house; there’s no Sherman girl here!”
“Let me in at once,” said Sara Wharton, “or I shall get a policeman, and have a warrant served. I know Nellie Sherman lives here, and I want to see her. You had better let me in without further talk. I am Miss Wharton.”
“I don’t care if you are Queen Victoria,” the keeper of the house declared angrily; “well, you can come in, though there ain’t no Nellie Sherman here; there’s a Nettie Sherman,—if she’s the girl you’re looking for.”
“Tell her I want to see her, please.”
“She’s up in her room. You can go up.” Miss Wharton’s instant’s hesitation made her add, “There ain’t nobody there.”
The halls and stairs were nearly dark; one or two frowzy heads peered over the banisters, and drew back quickly; there was a loud guffaw of laughter from behind a closed door, and all the air was heavy with the reek of stale tobacco.