An attendant was commencing to move automobiles out of the apartment house garage and park them at the curb. I picked a prosperous-looking machine on the theory that the owner would be sleeping late, climbed in and sat down, leaving the package on the seat beside me.

Bertha Cool came marching majestically out of the apartment house, looked up and down the street, and then started toward the corner. She didn’t see me in the automobile as she walked past. I let her go. After she’d walked another fifty feet I could pick her up in the rear-view mirror of the automobile. Apparently she was puzzled by my complete disappearance. She stopped twice before she got to the corner, looking around inquiringly. At the corner, she turned left. I couldn’t tell whether she had headed for the better-traveled streets, looking for a taxicab, or whether she was still looking for me. I didn’t dare to turn around. I kept slouched in the seat, glancing in the rear-view mirror occasionally, but keeping my attention focused on the entrance of the apartment house.

After a while the two plain-clothes officers came out. Sandra Birks wasn’t with them. They stood for a moment talking. Then they got in the car and drove away.

I picked up my newspaper package, slid out of the automobile, and walked rapidly toward the apartment house. A big refuse can had been dragged out by the janitor and was placed near the curb. I opened the lid and dropped my package into the can, replaced the lid, and went directly to Sandra Birks’ apartment. She didn’t open the door until I’d knocked twice. She hadn’t been crying, but her eyes were dark and her cheeks seemed to be all caved in. Her mouth looked drawn and hard. She said, “You!”

I slipped in through the door, closed it behind me and snapped the bolt.

“The package,” she asked. “How about it? Did you get rid of it?”

I nodded.

She said, “You shouldn’t have come back here.”

“I had to talk with you,” I said.

She put her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, I’m so frightened,” she said. “I don’t know what it means. Do you suppose that Morgan—that Alma—”

I slipped my arm around her waist and said, “Take it easy, Sandra.”

That arm seemed to be the signal she was waiting for. She insinuated her body up close to mine. Her eyes looked into mine. “Donald,” she said, “you must help me.”

And then she kissed me.

She may have had other things on her mind. Probably there was plenty to worry her, but it didn’t interfere with that kiss. There was nothing sisterly or platonic about it.