“I’m not a peddler,” Nancy called out reassuringly. “Won’t you let me in, please?”
There was a long silence, and then the quavering voice replied:
“I can’t open the door. I’ve hurt myself and can’t walk.”
Nancy hesitated an instant, and then pushed open the door. As she stepped into the dreary living room, she saw the pitiful figure on the couch. Abigail Rowen lay huddled under a ragged old shawl, her withered face drawn with pain.
“I am Nancy Drew and I’ve come to help you, Miss Rowen.”
At the words, the old lady turned her head and regarded Nancy with a stare which was almost childlike.
“You’ve come to help me?” she repeated unbelievingly. “I didn’t think anyone would ever trouble themselves about old Abigail again.”
“Here, let me arrange the pillows for you.” Gently, Nancy moved the old woman into a more comfortable position.
“Yesterday I fell down the cellar stairs,” Abigail explained. “I hurt my hip and sprained my ankle. I can’t take a step without it nearly killing me.”
“Haven’t you had a doctor?” Nancy asked in astonishment.
“There ain’t been a soul come near me,” Abigail sighed. “I’ve just laid here on my bed and wondered how soon the end would come. I’m getting along in years now and it won’t be long—”
“Nonsense,” Nancy protested brusquely, for she saw that the old lady’s trouble had made her morose. “You have a good many happy years yet before you. Can you walk at all? Are you certain your hip isn’t broken?”
“I can walk a little, but it hurts something awful when I do.”