This naive suggestion did not affect him as much as the fact that this
fair young girl had confessed herself his friend. He did not look at
Myrtle now; he stared straight ahead, at the wall paper, and his brow
was furrowed as if he was thinking deeply.

Perhaps any other man would have thanked the girl for her sympathy and
her proffered friendship, or at the least have acknowledged it. But
not so this queer Mr. Jones; eccentric, indeed, as the shrewd landlord
had described him. Nor did Myrtle seem to expect an acknowledgment.
It was enough for her that her speech had set him thinking along new
lines.

He sat musing for so long that she finally remembered it was growing
late, and began to fear Patsy and Beth would seek their rooms, which
connected with her own, and find her absent. That would worry them. So
at last she rose softly, took her crutches and turned to go.

"Good night, my--friend," she said.

"Good night, my child," he answered in a mechanical tone, without
rousing from his abstraction.

Myrtle went to her room and found it was not so late as she had
feared. She opened a drawer and placed the revolver in it, not without
a little shudder.

"At any rate," she murmured, with satisfaction, "he will not use this
to-night."