“Only that I was there, sir; nothing more,” she insisted. “I was alone and on my way home when suddenly everything became a blank. I don’t know what followed, what I did, or where I went. I remember nothing more until I awoke in this place and saw you bending over me. I am telling the truth, sir, and——”
“Oh, I don’t question your honesty, my girl,” Doctor Devoll interposed less austerely. “What is your name?”
“Mabel Smith, sir,” she admitted, after a moment.
“Where do you live?”
“I board at No. 81 Flint Street with Mrs. Morton, a widow. I must go home. She will be very anxious about me and may—did I have anything when I was brought in here? I mean my purse.” She digressed abruptly; then stopped again, with a somewhat guilty expression in her troubled eyes.
There was a small table near the foot of the cot, on which the nurse had placed the girl’s hat and a small, knit purse. The physician glanced at them, replying:
“Here is your purse, Miss Smith. Was there anything else?”
“I—I think I had a small leather bag,” she replied.
“That appears to be missing.”
“I’m not sure,” she quickly added. “I don’t know positively that I had it with me. If I did, sir, I suppose I must have dropped it.”