“Nora Conner.”
“You sure you didn’t come in here a-purpose?”
“I don’t even know were it is—-or what, exactly.”
“I’m Ken Smith and don’t tell any more dam’ lies. Come on, Nora, we’ll get you out.”
“Where?”
“Washington Avenue.” The man held the lantern up but could not read her face. “That suit you?”
“Anything,” she said dramatically, “to get out.”
She almost told them that she’d thought they were the dead from the cemetery. She realized in time, being Nora, that the confidence, true and horrific though it might be, would reveal the good knowledge she’d had of her whereabouts.
They walked along with Nora second in the file. “What were you doing here?” she asked.
“Trying to stop a leak in a joint.”