Grey Mask by Patricia Wentworth

voice said shakily, “I— don’t—know.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    It was abominably stupid to ask the question—the girl would certainly beg from her.
    “I haven’t anywhere to go.”
    Margaret moved, and at once two despairing hands caught at her.
    “Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!”
    Margaret told herself she had been a fool, but she was in for it now. She took the girl by the arm, and felt that her sleeve was soaked.
    “Good gracious! You’re wet through.!”
    “It rained.” The voice was one of utter misery.
    “Come along as far as the lamp-post—we can’t talk in the dark.”
    The lamplight showed Margaret a girl with drenched fair hair hanging in wispy curls. The girl was very pretty indeed; even with a tear-stained face and limp hair she was very pretty. Her dark blue coat was beautifully cut, and drenched though it was, Margaret could both feel and see that the stuff had been expensive. It had a grey fox collar, draggled and discouraged-looking, but a fine skin for all that.
    The girl looked at her out of blue, tear-washed eyes set round with astonishingly black lashes.
    “Have you lost your way?” said Margaret gravely.
    “Yes—I have—but—”
    “Where do you live?”
    The girl gulped down a sob.
    “I can’t go back—I can’t.”
    She couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. Margaret’s eyes travelled down to her feet. Expensive shoes—real Milanese stockings. “The little idiot has had a row with her people and run away.” She spoke firmly:
    “Where do you live? You must go home at once.”
    “I can’t. I haven’t got a home.”
    “Where have you come from?”
    “I can’t go back. They’ll do something dreadful to me if I go back.”
    “Do you mean they’ll be angry with you?”
    The girl shook her head.
    “There isn’t anyone to be angry. I haven’t got anyone— really I haven’t. They’ll do something dreadful to me. I heard them making a plan—I did really. I hid behind the sofa and I heard them. They said it would be safer to remove me.” She shuddered violently. “Oh, what do you think they meant?”
    Margaret was puzzled. This might be delusion; but the girl didn’t look unhinged. She looked frightened, and she was certainly soaked to the skin.
    “Haven’t you any friends you could go to for tonight?”
    “Papa wouldn’t let me have any friends, except at school.”
    “Where was your school?”
    “In Switzerland.”
    “What on earth am I to do with you?” said Margaret. “What’s your name.”
    “Esther Brandon,” said the girl.
    The desk that Margaret was carrying fell on the pavement with a crash. The name was like a blow. She looked at the girl’s brimming eyes and quivering mouth, and saw them as if they were a long way off, a very long way off. She had to put her hand on the standard of the lamp and lean hard on it for a moment before she could find voice enough to speak.
    “What did you say?”
    “Esther Brandon,” said the girl.
    Margaret felt quite numb and stupid. She bent down and picked up the desk. It had been Esther Brandon’s desk when she was a girl, no older than this girl. And Esther Brandon had become Esther Langton, and afterwards Esther Pelham. Margaret straightened herself, holding the desk as if it weighed heavily. Then she spoke suddenly and sharply:
    “Where did you get that name?”
    The girl didn’t answer. She had looked frightened when Margaret caught at the lamp-post. Now all of a sudden a vague look came over her face; her eyes clouded. She put out her hand and said “Oh!” then she took a wavering step forward and went down all in a heap on the pavement.
    Mr. Charles Moray loomed up out of the darkness.
    “Charles—thank goodness!”
    “What’s up?” said Charles. “Who is she?”
    “I don’t know. Be an angel and get me a taxi.”
    “What are you going to do with her?”
    “Take her back with me.”
    Charles whistled.
    “My dear girl, you can’t go about London collecting strange