figure—the figure of a woman whose head was lowered and whose arms hung limply at her sides.     

       The woman in the car bent forward over the wheel, staring hard. Many seconds passed. At last the forlorn object in the roadway lifted her face and looked vacantly into the glare of the lamps. Her eyes were wide-open, her face a ghastly white.     

       "God in heaven!" struggled from the stiffening lips of Sara Wrandall. Her fingers tightened on the wheel.     

       She knew. This was the woman!     

       The long brown ulster; the limp, fluttering veil! "A woman about your size and figure," the sheriff had said.     

       The figure swayed and then moved a few steps forward. Blinded by the lights, she bent her head and shielded her eyes with her hand the better to glimpse the occupant of the car.     

       "Are you looking for me?" she cried out shrilly, at the same time spreading her arms as if in surrender. It was almost a wail.     

       Mrs. Wrandall caught her breath. Her heart began to beat once more.     

       "Who are you? What do you want?" she cried out, without knowing what she said.     

       The girl started. She had not expected to hear the voice of a woman. She staggered to the side of the road, out of the line of light.     

       "I—I beg your pardon," she cried,—it was like a wail of disappointment,—"I am sorry to have stopped you."     

       "Come here," commanded the other, still staring.     

       The unsteady figure advanced. Halting beside the car, she leaned across the spare tires and gazed into the eyes of the driver. Their faces were not more than a foot apart, their eyes were narrowed in tense scrutiny.     

       "What do you want?" repeated Mrs. Wrandall, her voice hoarse and tremulous.     

       "I am looking for an inn. It must be near by. I do—"     

       "An inn?" with a start.     

       "I do not recall the name. It is not far from a village, in the hills."     

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