She was now more helpless than ever.
They had reached the door of the apartment.

Gently she led the trembling girl into her own home.
But now the question of what to do arose with redoubled force.

She hesitated to call a physician, at least yet, because his first advice would probably be to send the poor little stranger to the psychopathic ward of some hospital.
Constance's eye happened to rest on the dictionary in her bookcase.
Perhaps she might recall the girl's name to her, if she were not shamming, by reading over the list of women's names in the back of the book.
It meant many minutes, perhaps hours.

But then Constance reflected on what might have happened to the girl if she had chanced to appeal to some one who had not felt a true interest in her.

It was worth trying.
She would do it.
Starting with "A," she read slowly.
"Is your name Abigail ?" Down through Barbara, Camilla, Deborah, Edith, Faith, she read.
"Flora ?" she asked.
The girl seemed to apprehend something, appear less blank.
"Florence ?" persisted Constance.
"Oh, yes," she cried, "that's it--that's my name." But as for the last name and the address she was just as hazy as ever.
Still, there was now something different about her.
"Florence--Florence what ?" reiterated Constance patiently.
There was no answer.