Later as she stood before the washbasin in the corner of the room, she saw that she was covered with his hair. Tiny black, curling strands stuck to the film of sweat still hovering across her breasts and stomach. She drew a finger from one nipple to the other and left behind a clear trail, as if she were shaving.

Look! she said, spinning around, but Willoughby Lowe was already snoring away.

Madame Yuplait could tell what had happened. Miss Waldron was glowing like a firecracker, and there was an arch in her back that had not been there before. Madame beat her ferociously. Miss Waldron gripped the sides of the bed, bit her lips, and tried to hold still.

The private detectives also knew. They had followed Miss Waldron to Willoughby Lowe’s hotel, watched her making love through the keyhole, sucked in their breath as she drew her finger across her breasts, and regarded her over the tops of newspapers as she whisked through the lobby.

They had grown fond of Miss Waldron over the years. They had watched her develop from a spindly child to a woman with serious character. There were times when they thought of her as their own daughter, biting their nails as she climbed out of windows, hitchhiked down highways, and learned how to drink whiskey. But they were silent parents, like ghosts, only witnesses. They were never able to tell her no, to say stop, to give her warning, or to stroke her head while she was sleeping. They laid fingertips on her bony elbow as they returned her to her keepers, and tried hard to find ways from caring too much.

Sometimes the private detectives wondered if Miss Waldron knew they were there, recording every minute of her outside world. There were moments—a hesitant smile, a glance into the darkness before she slipped through a door—that said she did. At least this is what they secretly hoped—that sometimes she was doing what she was doing simply to give them something exciting to watch.

So when they saw Miss Waldron on the roof of the finishing school with a hatbox in her hand, the private detectives exchanged knowing hand signals. Before long a ladder slid across from one of the neighboring buildings, and, after steadying it, Miss Waldron crawled across the open space—six stories high—the handle of the hatbox in her teeth, her dress hitched around her waist, and her silk panties flashing for all the world to see.

The detectives dispatched a telegram to Miss Waldron’s father: DAUGHTER HAS ESCAPED FROM MADAME YUPLAIT STOP ON HER WAY TO GHANA STOP APPEARS TO BE IN LOVE STOP INSTRUCTIONS?

They received no reply.