shirt collar. It was buttoned, but didn’t have a tie. But that don’t matter, I reckon. I do remember, though, that he had a kind of wild look in his eyes. Anyway, when Miss Abbie said she was Miss Abbie, they went in that other room, the one in back of the lobby, a kind of parlor. At first I didn’t hear ‘em, because they wasn’t talking loud, and then his voice kept getting stronger. ‘Ain’t no use you lying,’ he kept saying over and over. ‘I know she was here.’ Then he was cussing and yelling something awful and I began to be afraid he’d have the police after us. ‘I’ll show you how I know she was here,’ he says. “This is how I know. Jest look at that and then tell me you ain’t seen her.’ Miss Abbie was beginning to yell by this time, and I could hear her telling him she didn’t have no idea where the girl was.”
“Hold it a minute, Bernice,” I interrupted. “You couldn’t see them from where you were, could you?”
She shook her head. “No. They was in that other room. The door wasn’t more than half closed, but I couldn’t see ‘em.”
“Did you go back in the room after the police had been here and gone? I mean, after they took Abbie away?”
“No. Kate and me run down the street. First, Kate called the shurf’s office, and then later, when the shurf got here, we run.”
I nodded. It must have been a letter the man was showing Abbie. But where was it? If he’d had it on him when Kurd brought him in, they’d have found it when they searched him, when they took his money and belt and things. And Abbie couldn’t have been carrying it when she left, for she wasn’t in any condition to be carrying anything. Could it have been on the floor down there? If so, why hadn’t Hurd seen it?
I stood up hurriedly. “You finish up your packing, Bernice,” I said, “and I’ll drop you off in town. I’m going down to that room and have a look.”
I went down the stairs in the dark and along the lower hall until I found the door. When I was inside I struck a match to locate the light switch, closed the door, and snapped on the light. There wasn’t much evidence of a fight, but when I thought about it I realized there couldn’t have been any great struggle, as small as Abbie was. He’d just chopped her with that knife and she’d fallen over onto the sofa, and now she might be dying. There were blood spots on the rug, but they weren’t what I was looking for. There was no sign of a letter.
I went across and looked at the sofa. There was blood on one end of it, on the arm. It sat in the corner, with the arm only about a foot from the other wall. Leaning over, I looked down. There it was. I squatted on the floor and reached an arm in after it and pulled it out. It was typewritten, on good stationery, and when I glanced down at the signature I could feel a draft blowing up my back.
Dear Mrs. Waites:
It is with extreme reluctance and with sadness and an almost overpowering sense of futility that I am forced to write you this letter. It appears that I have failed—at least so far—in all efforts to locate or get in touch with your daughter, and the only information I can pass along to you is that she has indeed been here in town but has now departed and I cannot even tell you where she has gone.
It goes without saying that I was pleased to receive your letter—apart from the sad tidings that occasioned it, of course—for it is always gratifying to be remembered by the members of one’s former congregations. And, believe me, my dear Mrs. Waites, I have left no stone unturned in my efforts to locate your daughter, for I believe that if I could find and talk to her I could help her to see the right way of life. You must believe me when I say that I know she is a good girl at heart, for I remember her quite well, and had I been able to get in touch with her I could have prevailed upon her to return home to you.