She tried to tear off the covering that had been put on her head, and found she had no difficulty in drawing it off.
There was no light in the room save that which entered through the windows from the street.
It was little, but sufficient to see that the room she was in was barely furnished. There was a table and two chairs. That was all.
She went to a window and saw that it looked out on the street, but could see no one there.
She examined her pockets and her dress. There had been no attempt to take anything from her. Her revolver still rested safely in her pocket. She felt more secure when she found this had been left to her.
She also drew from her pocket what she had forgotten she had—a blank form for a telegram and the stump of a pencil. Her pocketbook was secure also.
Hearing a noise without the window she went to it again to see that a young lad was crawling along the coping.
Trying to throw up the sash, she found it was nailed fast. Winding her handkerchief about her hand, so that it would not be cut, she broke a pane of glass and thrust her head through it.
The boy was startled and seemed as if he were going to crawl back.
“Who are you?” asked Ida.