no lights inside. I wanted to ring the doorbell again, but a sense of
delicacy forbade me. I was not a detective, and if I persisted, I
might attract the attention of a passer-by or of the returning
policeman, and so get Vicky into all sorts of trouble. I wasn't
tracking the girl down. If she was a criminal, let the police find
her, I had no desire to aid their efforts, but I did want to see Vicky
Van. I wanted to offer her my help--not in escaping justice,
exactly--but I wondered if I mightn't do some little errands or favors
that would show my friendliness.

I went slowly toward home, when I had an inspiration. Hastening into
my own house, I flew to the telephone and called Vicky's number, which
I knew well.

I waited some time for a response, but at last I heard Vicky's voice
say, "Who is it, please?"

An impulse of protection for her, not for myself, led me to withhold
my name. Nor did I speak hers.

I said, "This is the man who just left your house. I called up to
offer help, if I can render you any."

"That's good of you," she returned, in a heartfelt way. "I appreciate
such kindness, but you can do nothing--nothing, thank you."

"At least, talk to me a few minutes. I'm so anxious about you. You are
not implicated in the--in the matter, are you?"

"Don't ask me," she murmured, in such a serious voice, that my heart