about me either, do you?"

"Yes, I do. I knew," she said, "the minute I came into the room. If it
comes to that, you don't know anything about _me_."

I said I did; I knew the minute _she_ came into the room. And she faced
me with, "Well then, you see!" as if that settled it.

I suppose it did settle it. I must have decided that since nobody could
stop her, and I wasn't, after all, a villain, if she insisted on being
somebody's typist, she had very much better be mine. You see, she was so
young. I wanted to protect her. Not that there was anything helpless and
pathetic about her, anything, except her innocence, that appealed to me
for protection. On the contrary, she struck me as a creature of high
courage and defiance. That, of course, was what constituted the danger.
She would insist on taking risks. Presently I heard myself saying, "Yes,
the Close, Canterbury. I've got that. But where am I to find you here?"

She gave me an address that made me whistle.

I asked her if she knew anything, anything whatever, about the people of
the house?

She said she didn't. She had chosen it because it had a nice green door,
and there was an Angora cat on the door-step. A large orange cat with
green eyes.

Had she actually taken rooms there?

No. But she had chosen them (I think she said because they had pretty