she was under some strong excitement, for her hands, large but
faultlessly modeled, were pressed tensely together. And St. George
saw that she was by no means a mulatto, or of any race that he was
able to name. Her features were classic and of exceeding fineness,
and her face was sensitive and highly-bred and filled with repose,
like the surprising repose of breathing arrested in marble. There
was that about her, however, which would have made one, constituted
to perceive only the arbitrary balance of things, feel almost
afraid; while one of high organization would inevitably have been
smitten by some sense of the incalculably higher organization of her
nature, a nature which breathed forth an influence, laid a
spell--did something indefinable. Sometimes one stands too closely
to a statue and is frightened by the nearness, as by the nearness
of one of an alien region. St. George felt this directly he spoke to
her. He shook off the impression and set himself practically to the
matter in hand. He had never had greater need of his faculty for
directness. His low tone was quite matter-of-fact, his manner
deferentially reassuring.

"I think," he said softly and without preface, "that I can help you.
Will you let me help you? Will you tell me quickly your name?"

The woman's beautiful eyes were filled with distress, but she shook
her head.

"Your name--name--name?" St. George repeated earnestly, but she had
only the same answer. "Can you not tell me where you live?" St.
George persisted, and she made no other sign.

"New York?" went on St. George patiently. "New York? Do you live in