Her father was dead, but her mother and a brother were living.

She herself had a small annuity, sufficient to live on modestly, and had come to New York seeking a career as an artist.

Her story, her ambitions appealed to Constance, who had been somewhat of an artist herself and recognized even in talking to the girl that she was not without some ability.
Then, too, she found that Kitty actually lived, as she had said, in a cozy little kitchenette apartment with two friends, a man and his wife, both of whom happened to be out when they arrived.

As Constance looked about she could see clearly that there was indeed no adequate reason why the girl should steal.
"How do you feel ?" asked Constance when the girl had sunk half exhausted on a couch in the living room.
"Oh, so nervous," she replied, pressing her hands to the back of her head, "and I have a terrible headache, although it is a little better now." They had talked for perhaps half an hour, as Constance soothed her, when there was the sound of a key in the door.

A young woman in black entered.