"But how can you?"
"In many ways. I might be able to find some clue--anyhow, I want to
help--him, of course, but particularly you."
Elinor looked dubious; nevertheless she suggested:
"Perhaps you'll come back and talk to him."
Her new acquaintance shook her head.
"Not now. But isn't there something I can do for you? Don't you
need----"
"Money?" Elinor said, taking the words out of the other's mouth.
"We have money, thank you," and added half hurriedly, half in
embarrassment: "Will you excuse me if I leave you. I have an engagement
with our lawyer, and I'm late."
The stranger laid her hand on Elinor's sleeve, and persisted:
"But can't I come and see you--won't you tell me where you live?"
There was something in the tone and action of the woman that Elinor
resented, though she didn't know just what it was.
"Really, I don't know what to say."
"I'm sorry you're suspicious of me. I wish I could prove to you that
I'm sincere. Please tell me where I can see you."
"To-morrow, then, here," was Elinor's answer, and finally tore herself
away.
The moment she entered Leech's office, he broke out with:
"You haven't lunched, I know. Come on, Miss Ilingsworth, we'll lunch
together."
"I can't do that, Mr. Leech, I've lunched already," she told him. But
Leech saw clearly the falsity of this statement in the pallor of the
girl's skin, in the hunger in her eyes. And, in the end, as he had
planned, she consented to go with him. As they sat at one of Raphael's
small tables she confided to him how she had been accosted by a strange
woman. At first Leech seemed to regard the incident as not worthy of
attention; but on second thoughts he warned Elinor not to see the woman
again. And his motive in doing this was by no means a disinterested
one, for so clearly and faithfully had Elinor reported the conversation
between the stranger and herself, that the Assistant District Attorney
could not fail to believe that Elinor had, in reality, found a friend.
"One has got to be so careful here in New York of everybody," he
remarked with an admirable assumption of solicitude.
But true to her promise, the woman came to the Tombs the next day. And
on seeing Elinor she came quickly toward her with outstretched hand;
but the other merely shook her head and passed on inside. She felt
independent of any outside aid now; for the attitude of Leech was most
encouraging. And there was unusual happiness in her look, an infectious
tone in her laugh as she said to her father:
"I know you'll get off somehow."
On the next day and the day after that, Elinor noted the woman still
waiting at her post, still hoping, evidently, that Elinor would speak
to her; and on each of these days Giles Ilingsworth felt the buoyancy
in his daughter's manner.
"You're like a bit of sunshine in this place," he said.
On the third day, at sunset, he sent for the deputy.
"Deputy," said the old man, clutching his coat-sleeve pitifully through
the bars, "I--my daughter hasn't been here to-day."
"I know," answered the other. "I've missed her, too."
"She must be ill," the old man said. "Is there any way of finding out?
I have some money with me...."
They sent a messenger to Elinor's room; but the messenger returned with
the information that she was not in. All that night Ilingsworth paced
his narrow cell; but with the morning sun came new hopes.
"She'll be here to-day," he assured himself.
But she didn't come that day either. When his meals were brought to him
he refused to eat. And again all that night he paced his cell. He was
inconsolable.
Five more days passed without Ilingsworth having received word from his
daughter, but then, just when it seemed that he could bear the suspense
no longer, the deputy came to him and said:
"There's a lady downstairs who knows your daughter. She's been here
every day, came just to see her. She wants to help--wants her address.
Shall I give it to her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed the old man, eagerly.
In a little while the woman returned and told the deputy that Miss
Ilingsworth had moved, had taken all her things, had gone, they didn't
know where; and the warden repeated her words to the poor old man
before whom lay many nights yet of sleeplessness and agony.