Brunell was out when he called, but Emily led him into the little sitting-room, and for a time they talked in a desultory fashion. Morrow, who had brought so many malefactors to justice by the winning snare of his personality, felt for once at a loss as to how to commence his questioning.
But the girl herself, guilelessly, gave him a lead by beginning, quite of her own accord, to talk of her early life.
“It seems so strange,” she remarked, confidingly, “to have been so completely alone all of my life––except for Daddy, of course.”
“You have no brothers or sisters, Miss Brunell?” asked the detective.
“None––and I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.”
Morrow sighed, and involuntarily his hand reached forward in an expression of complete sympathy.
“Daddy has been mother and father to me,” the girl 100 went on impulsively. “We have always lived in this neighborhood, ever since I can remember, and of course we know everyone around here. But with my downtown position and Father’s work in the shop, we’ve had no time to make real friends and we haven’t even cared to––before.”
“Before when?” he asked with a kindly intonation not at all in keeping with the purpose which had actuated him in seeking her friendship.
“Before you brought my kitten back to me.” She paused, suddenly confused and shy, then added hurriedly, “We have so few guests, you know. Daddy, somehow, doesn’t care for people––as a rule, that is. I’m awfully glad that he has made an exception with you.”
“But surely you have other friends––for instance, that young fellow I’ve noticed now and again when he called upon you.”