“When did she go to New York to live?”
“Last winter, early. It’s nearly a year now. There was something come across her—she appeared homesick like, and strange. When she said she meant to go to the city and get work, I was minded to let her go, for I thought the change mebbe would do her good. But she’s quite ailing and coughs dreadful o’ nights. I’m afraid she catched cold in that rain-storm night afore last; she came up all the way from the depot in it. She was wet to the skin when she got here and as white as a sheet. She was so weak-like that when the neighbors came in with the news yesterday, she gave a scream and dropped right down. I didn’t wonder she was took aback. I ain’t got done trembling yet myself.”
I remembered the gentleman who had first spoken to me about the girl said that she had come in on the morning train Saturday; I could not reconcile this with her coming up from the depot at dark; yet I wished to put my question in such a way as not to arouse suspicion of my motive.
“If she came in the six o’clock train she must have been on the same train with Mr. Moreland.”
“I believe she was in the seven o’clock cars—yes, she was. ’Twas half-past seven when she got in—the rain was pouring down awful. She didn’t see him, for I asked her yesterday.”
“In whose shop in New York is she employed?” inquired the officer.
“She’s at No 3—Broadway,” naming a store somewhere between Wall street and Canal.
“Are you wanting her for any thing?” she asked, suddenly, looking up sharply as if it just occurred to her that our inquiries were rather pointed.
“Oh, no,” replied my companion, rising; “I was a bit tired, and thought I’d rest my feet before starting out again. I’ll thank you for a glass of water, Mrs. Sullivan. So you won’t undertake the shirts?”
“If I thought I could do the button-holes—”