her pale ethereal beauty. She called again.
"What's the matter with you?" Larry demanded. "Are you alone in there? What is it?"
She backed from the window; we could see her only as a white blob in the darkness of the basement room.
I called, "Can you hear us? What is it?"
Then she screamed again. A low scream; but there was infinite terror in it. And again she was at the window.
"You will not hurt me? Let me – oh please let me come out!" Her fists pounded the casement.
What I would have done I don't know. I recall wondering if the policeman would be at our corner down the block; he very seldom was there. I heard Larry saying:
"What the hell! – I'll get her out. George, get me that brick… Now, get back, girl – I'm going to smash the window."
But the girl kept her face pressed against the pane. I had never seen such terrified eyes. Terrified at something behind her in the house; and equally frightened at us.
I call to her: "Come to the door. Can't you come to the door and open it?" I pointed to the basement gate. "Open it! Can you hear me?"
"Yes – I can hear you, and you speak my language. But you – you will not hurt me? Where am I? This – this was my house a moment ago. I was living here."
Demented! It flashed to me. An insane girl, locked in this empty house. I gripped Larry; said to him: "Take it easy; there's something queer about this. We can't smash windows. Let's – "
"You open the door," he called to the girl.
"I cannot."
"Why? Is it locked on the inside?"
"I don't know. Because – oh, hurry! If he – if it comes again – !"
We could see her turn to look behind her.
Larry demanded, "Are you alone in there?"
"Yes – now. But, oh! a moment ago he was here!"
"Then come to the door."
"I cannot. I don't know where it is. This is so strange and dark a place. And yet it was my home, just a little time ago."
Demented! And it seemed to me that her accent was very queer. A foreigner, perhaps.
She went suddenly into frantic fear. Her fists beat the window glass almost hard enough to shatter it.
"We'd better get her out," I agreed. "Smash it, Larry."
"Yes." He waved at the girl. "Get back. I'll break the glass. Get away so you won't get hurt."
The girl receded into the dimness.
"Watch your hand," I cautioned. Larry took off his coat and wrapped his hand and the brick in it. I gazed behind us. The street was still empty. The slight commotion we had made had attracted no attention.
The girl cried out again as Larry smashed the pane. "Easy," I called to her. "Take it easy. We won't hurt you."
The splintering glass fell inward, and Larry pounded around the casement until it was all clear. The rectangular opening was fairly large. We could see a dim basement room of dilapidated furniture: a door opening into a back room; the girl; nearby, a white shape watching us.
There seemed no one else. "Come on," I said. "You can get out here."
But she backed away. I was half in the window so I swung my legs over the sill. Larry came after me, and together we advanced on the girl, who shrank before us.
Then suddenly she ran to meet us, and I had the sudden feeling that she was not insane. Her fear of us was overshadowed by her terror at something else in this dark, deserted house. The terror communicated itself to Larry and me. Something eery, here.
"Come on," Larry muttered. "Let's get her out of here."
I had indeed no desire to investigate anything further. The girl let us help her through the window. I stood in the entryway holding her arms. Her dress was of billowing white satin with a single red rose at the breast; her snowy arms and shoulders were bare; white hair was piled high on her small head. Her face, still terrified, showed parted red lips; a little round black beauty patch adorned one of her powdered cheeks. The thought flashed to me that this was a girl in a fancy dress costume. This was a white wig she was wearing!
I stood with the girl in the entryway, at a loss what to do. I held her soft warm arms; the perfume of her enveloped me.
"What do you want us to do with you?" I demanded softly. McGuire, the policeman on the block, might at any moment pass. "We might get arrested! What's the matter with you? Can't you explain? Are you hurt?"
She was staring as though I were a ghost, or some strange animal. "Oh, take me away from this place! I will talk – though I do not know what to say – "
Demented or sane, I had no desire to have her fall into the clutches of the police. Nor could we very well take her to our apartment. But there was my friend Dr. Alten, alienist, who lived within a mile of here.
"We'll take her to Alten's," I said to Larry, "and find out what this means. She isn't crazy."
A sudden wild emotion swept me, then. Whatever this mystery, more than anything in the world I did not want the girl to be insane!
Larry said, "There was a taxi down the street."
It came, now, slowly along the deserted block. The chauffeur had perhaps heard us, and was cruising past to see if we were possible fares. He halted at the curb. The girl had quieted; but when she saw the taxi her face registered wildest terror, and she shrank against me.
"No! No! Don't let it kill me!"
Larry and I were pulling her forward. "What the devil's the matter with you?" Larry demanded again.
She was suddenly wildly fighting with us. "No! That – that mechanism – "
"Get her in it!" Larry panted. "We'll have the neighborhood on us!"
It seemed the only thing to do. We flung her, scrambling and fighting, into the taxi. To the half-frightened, reluctant driver, Larry said vigorously:
"It's all right; we're just taking her to a doctor. Hurry and get us away from here. There's good money in it for you!"
The promise – and the reassurance of the physician's address – convinced the chauffeur. We whirled off toward Washington Square.
Within the swaying taxi I sat holding the trembling girl. She was sobbing now, but quieting.
"There," I murmured. "We won't hurt you; we're just taking you to a doctor. You can explain to him. He's very intelligent."
"Yes," she said softly. "Yes. Thank you. I'm all right now."
She relaxed against me. So beautiful, so dainty a creature.
Larry leaned toward us. "You're better now?"
"Yes."
"That's fine. You'll be all right. Don't think about it."
He was convinced she was insane. I breathed again the vague hope that it might not be so. She was huddled against me. Her face, upturned to mine, had color in it now; red lips; a faint rose tint in the pale cheeks.
She murmured, "Is this New York?"
My heart sank. "Yes," I answered. "Of course it is."
"But when?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, what year?"
"Why, 1935!"
She caught her breath. "And your name is – "
"George Rankin."
"And I," – her laugh had a queer break in it – "I am Mistress Mary Atwood. But just a few minutes ago – oh, am I dreaming? Surely I'm not insane!"
Larry again leaned over us. "What are you talking about?"
"You're friendly, you two. Like men; strange, so very strange-looking young men. This – this carriage without any horses – I know now it won't hurt