“Elsie Baxter is your name, all right, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
She nodded, watching his face closely meanwhile.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” she whispered.
“What nationality?”
“American.”
“What part of the States do you come from, my girl?” he continued. “Where are your parents—if you have any—or your friends?”
But his inquiries failed to elicit any response, and all he got was the same passive look of mute entreaty which she had exhibited to all his queries on the occasion of their first meeting.
“Come,” he whispered coaxingly. “Why won’t you tell me? You ought to.”
She sighed as if she were exhausted. “What’s the—use?” she murmured. “My real mother—is—dead—an’—an’—my father—an’ my step-mother—were unkind—to me—so I ran—away....”