"A born thief," Mrs. Fitzgerald declared with conviction,--"a
real bad lot. One of your sly-looking ones, I call her."

The little lady sighed.

"When I was better off," she continued, "I used to help at a soup
kitchen in Poplar. I have never forgotten a certain look we used
to see occasionally in the faces of some of the men and women. I
found out what it meant--it was hunger. Once or twice lately I
have passed the girl who has just gone out, upon the stairs, and
she almost frightened me. She had just the same look in her
eyes. I noticed it yesterday--it was just before dinner, too
-- but she never came down."

"She paid so much for her room and extra for meals," Mrs.
Lawrence said thoughtfully. "She never would have a meal unless
she paid for it at the time. To tell you the truth, I was
feeling a bit uneasy about her. She hasn't been in the
diningroom for two days, and from what they tell me there's no
signs of her having eaten anything in her room. As for getting
anything out, why should she? It would be cheaper for her here
than anywhere, if she'd got any money at all."

There was an uncomfortable silence. The little old lady with the
knitting looked down the street into the sultry darkness which
had swallowed up the girl.

"I wonder whether Mr. Tavernake knows anything about her," some
one suggested.