Harper's/A Chance Samaritan

BY MARGARET CAMERON

AVING learned that his friends had left the hotel, Carrington was hurrying through the crowded hall toward the street, when he found himself face to face with Jean Beveredge. It was the first time they had met since the evening, months before, when she had bidden him choose between her love and his professional integrity, and he had gone from her embittered presence to prosecute an inquiry that had brought, as he had known it must, exposure and discredit to her father, in an old age previously honored.

Carrington had grown lean during those months. His face was worn almost to haggardness, and the line of his lips was stem. Now, as his one brief glance took account of the ravages sorrow and anxiety had made in her face, he bowed, and passed so quickly that he did not notice her slight detaining gesture. He heard her call, however, and turned instantly, only his startled, stormy eyes betokening his emotion.

A red flame scorched her face and died, overcome by an icy pallor, but her voice was perfectly steady and of the impersonal tint one uses in addressing a stranger.

"I beg your pardon," said she, "but do you happen to know where Mr. Sawyer is taking Mrs. Knowles and the rest to dine to-night?"

"No," he replied, striving to respond in the key she had set. "I haven't heard him say."

"Ah! I thought you might know. Thank you." Then, because he still lingered, she added, as if to dismiss him and the subject together: "I was to meet them here. Evidently they have been detained."

To his perturbed consciousness her words seemed entirely calm, but he saw that she was troubled; indeed, he knew that only in sore straits would she accost him, even casually, and refused to take his congé, finding a fanatic pleasure in prolonging his pain in her service.

"Perhaps I can be of use?" he suggested.

"No,—thank you," coldly. "They will come presently."

"Undoubtedly; still—I assure you I don't wish to seem persistent—or officious, but—suppose they shouldn't come?"

"Oh, they will! They must!" For a moment her careful manner broke under the spur of apprehension. "Don't you think they will? I mean," more quietly? "you have have no reason for thinking they won't?"

"None whatever, except—I infer that they're very late, and there's always a possibility of accident or misunderstanding. If there is anything I can—"

"Thank you—no. There is nothing." Bowing slightly, she would have turned away had he not interposed, with a manner for the moment as formal as her own.

"I hope you will try to see this impersonally—neutrally." Once again color overspread her face, rising hotly to her hair, but he continued, in the same tone: "I quite understand that you spoke to me only because, as Jim Sawyer and I are close friends, you thought I might know about his plans this evening. Unfortunately, I do not; but there are certain things that I can offer to any woman—and that you can accept from any man—who is Sawyer's friend. Will you meet me on that ground, and let me know how I can be of service to you both?"

After the briefest pause, she conceded, somewhat unevenly: "Thank you. I am in—in a sort of—dilemma." As she went on, she was fairly successful in reducing the cold hostility of her tone to the steady, impersonal note with which she had begun. "Mr. Sawyer 'phoned me this morning that Mrs. Knowles and Maud were in town and he had persuaded them to stay over for dinner. He was going to ask some others, and wanted me to meet them all here at half past six."

"You're sure it was here?"

That's what I understood, though the 'phone was working badly. I told them not to wait past the hour, as if I came I would surely be on time; but I've been here since quarter past six, and I haven't seen any of them."

Carrington looked at his watch. "It's five minutes past seven. H'm! I'm afraid it's a case of a needle in a haystack now! Of course they weren't going to dine here?"

"No. I think they were going to some shabby old place Mr. Sawyer likes, where the walls are as smoky as the cooking is good."

Carrington shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. That may be any one of a dozen places scattered from the Battery to the Bronx," he said. "If that's the case, I'm afraid we must give it up. You—you'll let me take you to the ferry?"

"Oh no! No, I'd rather not!" she exclaimed. Then, as he flushed and drew back, she hastily continued: "You're very kind, but—I'm not going home. Not just yet. I can't. I mean— Don't you think I could possibly find them? It's rather important that I should, for—for other reasons than—than just dinner."

"Well, we can try; but there's about one chance in a thousand. You prefer to wait here?"

"Yes, I—no, it will save time if I go with you. That is," a hurried glance swept his face, "you don't mind?"

"Not at all. Just as you wish, of course."

Nevertheless, he frowned uneasily, and looked sharply about as they went toward the door. He seemed, also, to be making a rapid hunt through his pockets, and a curious blankness which she, her face turned steadfastly away from him, did not perceive, settled upon his countenance. At the door he hesitated before turning toward Broadway.

"I'm sorry I shall have to ask you to go in a street-car," he then said. "It would give me great pleasure to call a cab, but the truth is," laughing awkwardly, "I have exactly forty cents in my possession at this moment, and I haven't been able, since meeting you, to get my eye on a man I know. I may even be driven to borrowing car fare from you before we get to the end of this expedition."

"But you can't!" she cried. "That's what's the matter! That's the reason I can't go home until I find somebody I know. I've lost my purse and my commutation ticket. I haven't a cent!"

"You might have asked me!" he began, hotly, but instantly checked himself. Her glance had put glacial infinities between them.

"No." The tone was level and hard. "I couldn't. Besides," with a whimsical change of manner and a chill, glinting smile, "what would it have profited me? Forty cents wouldn't carry me far."

Startled by the vistas opening at this suggestion, they stopped in the white circle of an arc-light, staring at each other. Carrington thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a quarter and three nickels. Systematic search through many other pockets failed to reveal so much as a copper more. Spreading the coins out on his palm, he glanced ruefully from them to her blank face. Then, inopportunely, grotesquely, the common sense of humor that had been one of the strongest bonds between them, asserted itself. A leaping spark in her eye kindled a flash in his, and in the next instant they were irresistibly laughing together, almost in the old way. When Realization, with bitter mien, again overtook them, a barrier was down that could not easily be re-erected, and each was shaken by a crowd of turbulent emotions loosed in that moment of unrestrained laughter.

The woman was first to speak, in futile effort to restore to their relation its lost balance. "I'm afraid I'm embarrassing you more than even your friendship for Mr. Sawyer would warrant," she said, not very steadily. "I'll go back to the hotel. They'll surely find me in time."

"Why should they?" Only his words were under control. Husky voice and glowing eyes betrayed stirred depths of feeling. "You told Sawyer you might not come. They won't even look for you. But if you don't mind waiting at the hotel a little while, until I get some money."

"You can't! How can you?"

"I have a friend somewhere in this vicinity who can probably let me have some, but I must find him first, and it may take a little time."

"You mean that you intend to pawn something—your watch, of course." Again her tone was hard. She knew that the watch had been his father's, and that he valued it highly.

"Well—that would be a solution."

"On the contrary."

"But I shall not lose the watch—and I can't let you sit in that hotel reception-room all night, even if the management would, which I doubt. We'll try to find Sawyer and Mrs. Knowles, but, failing that, you must get home somehow; so—don't you see?—there is no other way." He spoke gently, persuasively, but his voice was still irrepressibly vibrant, and the girl's face grew more inflexible with each syllable.

"I cannot let you pawn your watch." The cold finality of her manner chilled him. "There must be some other way. If I had only asked what theatre they were going to!"

"Theatre! Are they going to the theatre?"

"Yes. Didn't I tell you?" "Then we have them! They'll go to see 'The Pink Paroquet.' Sawyer's fancy for that piece amounts to an obsession. That's where we'll find them!"

"Oh!" There was an awkward little silence, which, again, she broke, her voice flat and colorless. "Then—I needn't trouble you further. You've been very kind. Thank you—and good night."

"Please!" he begged. "You can't go to the theatre alone."

"I prefer to."

"And you've had no dinner. Oh, I quite understand," bitterly, as she made a quick, protesting gesture, "that you would not dine with me. But surely you'll not forbid me, as Sawyer's friend, to see, florist, that you have something to eat, and, later, that you join his party safely at the theatre?"

"I certainly shall not permit you to pawn—anything—in order that I may dine." Her very lips were stiff. "Anyway, I don't—need any dinner."

"Pardon me, you do need dinner. At least, let me lend you forty cents." Against the heavy depression now settling upon him, he strove to leaven his words with humor. "You can get something for that; soup and coffee—and perhaps even pie. Who knows?"

"And—you?"

Something in her hesitation set his heart aleap, although he instantly reasoned that it was the result of her unwillingness to accept even so small a sacrifice from him. He had learned his lesson well, and his head was not to be befooled, however his pulses might clamor. Still, he could not hold his voice quite steady.

"Oh, I shall do very well. I shall find food—enough."

"Food for thought?" she swiftly questioned, in nervous effort to second his attempt at humor and give the conversation a lighter, more careless aspect. Then, to cover the impulsive suggestion and the lack of poise that it betrayed, she hurried on into further mazes. "Or perhaps you mean thought for food? At any rate," hastily, "I doubt if you would find it sustaining, and I certainly cannot deprive you of your last penny."

"Then let me share my last penny with you! I mean," looking away, lest he should again encounter the icy displeasure of her glance, and eliminating from his tone all but the solicitude any stranger might evince in similar case, "will you extend the truce for an hour, dine—or more properly sup with me, and permit me to take you to the theatre to meet your friends,—or, failing that, to see you safely home?"

He held his breath through the silence that ensued. When she finally spoke, it seemed to him that her voice was even colder and more remote than it had yet been.

"As Mr. Sawyer's friend?"

"As Sawyer's friend." It was a pledge.

Another pause. Then she looked him full in the eyes, her own strangely alight, her head thrown a little back.

"Very well," she said, half defiantly. "I will."

Carrington's heart was in his throat, suffocating him. She saw him go white, and heard his one quick breath before he made himself say, quietly:

"Thank you. So far as I know, there is just one place in this neighborhood where we can get decent food for what we have to pay. Have you ever been in one of Kydd's places?"

"No."

"There's one in the next block. They are not fashionable—no one who knows us will be there—but they are good of their kind, and clean,—and they are cheap."

"Then, by all means, let's go there."

To Kydd's, accordingly, they went, casually commenting on the street scenes about them, as might the veriest strangers they pretended to be. Once, a witty comparison of his brought a quick, excited laugh from her, and once, in crossing the street, he touched her arm and winced inwardly as she hastily withdrew from the contact. Nevertheless, when they entered the white-tiled restaurant, a tinge of color had crept into her cheeks and her eyes were brilliant, while Carrington, in his rôle of Sawyer's friend, had resolved to abandon himself to the joy of the moment's companionship, giving no thought to the doubly desolate morrow.

They found places together near the back of the room, at a table where were already seated a fat woman whose untidy toilet was crowned by a flaring hat with aggressive blue plumes, three tired-looking girls in black gowns and neat white collars and cuffs, a stolid youth just finishing his meal, and, opposite Jean, an elderly man from out whose deeply lined face shone eyes serenely calm. Curious glances were directed from all sides toward the newcomers, whose manner no less than their raiment proclaimed them strayed from their accustomed environment.

Carrington spread before them, in lieu of a table-cloth, two tiny napkins taken from a pile on the uncovered marble slab serving as a table, and took up the bill of fare,—framed, like a child's slate, in wood,—asking in his courtliest and most impersonal manner,

What may I order for you?"

"Caviare," said she, "and whitebait, and—pheasant, I think. You may fill in the gaps." Apparently she had left behind her mood of cold formality, and in its place had come a hard sparkle and a tone of gay, sardonic raillery.

"I would suggest coffee," gravely returned Carrington. "They serve it here, I see, in generous and—er—substantial cups, for five cents."

"Oh, coffee, of course!"

"Two coffees. That's ten cents. Now—are you hungry?" "I—am. If you want the whole truth, I am ravenous!"

"And yet, you would have gone without dinner!"

"Yes; but—I'm to have dinner, you know," she suggested.

"True." He returned to the study of the card in his hand. "Then—do you prefer oysters or steak?"

"Let me see." She looked over his shoulder. "I don't want raw oysters—not at fifteen cents!—and, cooked, they cost far too much. What a remarkable price-list! Where's the steak? Oh, we can't afford that! It's twenty-five cents!"

"You must have steak." Carrington was acutely conscious of her use of the first person plural, and also of the derisive little smile playing about her lips. "I'm not at all hungry—"

"Indeed, I'll do nothing of the kind! You forget the terms of our agreement. We share this penny." For a moment he wondered whether she could be deliberately tempting him, and found himself baffled by the light in her eye. Was it challenge or mockery? "Oh, are those desserts? Are there any within our means?"

"'Pies in season,'" he read. "'Crullers, apple sauce, chocolate eclairs, vanilla cornstarch'—oh yes, lots of things for five cents."

"Delightful! I'll have—what are Napoleons? Or do you think sound more interesting?"

"If that is your standard, I suggest vanilla cornstarch as probably affording the maximum of sensation for the price."

"N-no, I'm not interested quite to that extent. I shall try Napoleons. It sounds so—Frenchy, don't you think?"

"I trust you'll not be forcibly reminded that the Man of Destiny was a Corsican. What else will you have?"

"Can we manage all this? Five cents for coffee, five for dessert, and—that leaves only ten for the pièce de résistance."

By this time the obvious disparity between their resources and their appearance had excited the undisguised and sympathetic interest of all their table companions, with the exception of the stolid youth, who noisily pushed back his chair and departed. An immaculately white-clad waitress paused behind them, but at a word from Carrington passed on.

"We ought to save a tip for the girl," said he. "I'll go without pie, and we'll give her five cents. Or—I'll tell you! Here's a 'side order of beans with any of the above for five cents.' Now, you order one of the above,' I'll take the beans, and we'll give the girl the difference."

"Fie on your mathematics!" she retorted. "All 'the above' are very, very expensive. 'Fried or broiled ham' is the cheapest, and that is twenty cents. Beans would make it twenty-five, and—you see? No, I want— Oh, here's chicken salad! I'm devoted to— Oh!" with exaggerated disappointment, "it's twenty-five cents, too,—and I did want chicken salad!"

"Have it, then," recklessly. "We'll manage somehow."

"No," sternly drawing in her lips. "We simply can't afford it!"

"Try corned-beef hash."

"It's fifteen cents!"

"Yes, I know,—but it's 'browned in the pan.'"

"We-ell, I'll give up Bonaparte and have hash." Glancing up, she encountered the admiring and sympathetic gaze of the elderly man opposite, and hastily resumed, "Now, what are you going to have?" "The delight of my boyhood,—buckwheat cakes and maple syrup."

"And pie."

"No; the price of my pie goes to the waiter lady."

Carrington gave the order, and heard it repeated almost instantly to the cook. The elderly man leaned across the table.

"Broke?" he asked, confidentially.

"Yes," said Carrington. "Flat."

"I've been there." The other nodded reminiscently, shrewdly adding, "You two ain't used to it, though."

"No," Carrington admitted; "we—I'm not. Not yet." He shot a glance at Jean, expecting to find traces of annoyance in her face, but she was regarding the man with mocking eyes and an odd, wry little smile.

A small steak, a tiny dish of French fried potatoes, and a plate of hot tea-biscuits were placed before their neighbor.

"I wanted to tell you when you were ordering," he said, looking at Jean, "that you got potatoes and biscuits with steak. I thought mebbe you didn't know." "No," she replied, "I didn't know. I've never been here before."

"That so? Then I'm sorry I didn't tell you. But I didn't just like to butt in that way. Some folks wouldn't stand for it."

"It wouldn't have made any difference, anyway—to-night."

"Oh!" said the man, comprehensively. He divided his small steak, with a queer, half-deprecating glance at the couple opposite, and put part of it carefully aside on the biscuit-plate. "Oh, well," he then observed, "worse things might happen to you than just being broke. You know that, don't you?" to Carrington.

"Yes," the younger man returned, somewhat grimly, "I know that."

"'Tain't real convenient—being broke," continued the other, sagely smiling. "I guess mebbe you're finding that out too. But you're both young, and you've got each other, so, after all, what do you care?"

"Obviously," said Jean, with a hard little laugh, "we don't care at all."

"That's right. Anybody can see you don't. You just make a joke of it, and go on having your good times together, anyhow. And that's right, too, for then, whatever happens, nothing can ever take away from you the good times you have had."

"Nor the hard times, either," she dryly supplemented.

"Oh, I don't know. When you've travelled a long way and look back, most of the hard times are like valleys in a picture. They sort o' drop out o' sight, and it's the good times that stand up and show. Now, when you're on your feet again, you won't think much about how it hurt to fall down, but you'll remember that when the two of you only had forty cents for your dinner, he wanted to spend twenty-five or thirty of it on you."

"Oh, undoubtedly! But you do him an injustice. He wanted to give me the whole forty."

"Well, there you are! There's a pair of you, too, for I heard him say you wanted to go without any dinner. And you," he turned to the now taciturn Carrington—"you won't remember much about the worry of it, once it's over, but you'll never forget that at the very worst she laughed and made a joke of it all. And she wouldn't take more than her half, either. She played fair. You'll never forget that."

"Our consideration for each other to-night is certainly touching," cynically observed Jean, although a deep flush burned in her face. "But don't you think, if we try hard, we may atone for it later?"

For a moment he regarded her mildly, puzzled as much by the tone as by the words. Then said he, simply:

"I guess that's one o' your jokes, too, ain't it? I ain't just sure I know what you mean, but anybody can see with one eye that you two have got what money won't buy—and, what's more, you both know it. And that's the kind o' thing that gives a man courage to fight and win out,—and you'll do it, too."

"Perhaps," said Carrington. Nothing in his whole encounter with Jean had so emphasized in his mind their changed relations as her ready acceptance of the rôle assigned her by this stranger in the bitter little comedy they were playing. He had expected to feel the barrier of her unabated anger, but her use of the situation created by the guileless man across the table convinced him that she deliberately sought to wound him.

"Oh, sure! You're down on your luck now, and I can see you're blue, but you can't stay discouraged as long as you've got her. I know! I've been there, too. And, anyhow, this ain't real trouble you've got.... Is it?" he asked, suddenly suspicious of his own insight.

"What do you call real trouble?" parried the girl, perceiving that Carrington would have no part in the discussion.

"Oh, well, now! I suppose there's as many kinds o' trouble as there's kinds o' people to make it, and nobody knows which kind would be hardest for somebody else. I've had a good many kinds myself, one time and another, but I never had any yet that got me down and kept me down. But then," thoughtfully. "I've never had to stand disgrace—for myself or my boys. That must be hard!" Jean's lips tightened and Carrington looked sternly into space. "And it's always seemed to me that one of the worst things for me to bear would be to do a mean thing—a big mean thing—to somebody I—I cared for, you know, and then lose 'em before I could make up for it. That must be one of the hardest things there is, don't you think so?"

"Is it?" asked Jean, in a little, choked voice.

The waitress brought their order and spread the dishes before them.

"You haven't brought me any bread," said Carrington.

"We don't give bread with cakes and syrup. Bread's extra. Want some?"

"No. Never mind."

Before Jean could proffer part of hers, the man opposite, glancing furtively at the three inattentive girls in black, said, in an embarrassed undertone:

"Say, young man, you—you take some of these biscuits. I ain't going to eat all of 'em, honest! And, anyhow, I've got a job now, and I can buy more if I want 'em. Sure, you take 'em! And I wish you'd eat the other half of this steak, too. You see, I put it off my plate because I thought—I mean, because I wasn't very hungry."

Carrington flushed painfully. "No, thank you," said he. "I shall do very well with cakes and coffee."

"No, you take it. My appetite ain't real good to-night, and I'd hate to see good steak like that wasted."

"Oh, take it!" whispered Jean, looking with suddenly misted eyes from his earnest face to Carrington's clouded one, and the younger man, after an instant's hesitation, perceived that acceptance would be the only adequate return for such an offer.

"That's right! Us old fellows get where we don't care so much about food, but I used to miss it a good deal when I was your age, and—rations was sort o' short, this way."

The fat woman had long since departed and now the black-clad girls followed her, leaving the three alone at the table. The crowd was clearing out, and the waitress put on the next table a large sign to the effect that the back of the dining-room was closed, and looked significantly at the remaining trio.

"You must have been having a run of bad luck," now observed their neighbor, obviously dallying with his food to prolong the conversation.

"I—have," said Carrington, truthfully.

"Let's see,—what did you say your trade was?"

"I'm a lawyer."

"Oh—are you?" For an instant his surprise was tinged with suspicion. "I thought lawyers always— But mebbe you got hit hard, and lost everything at once?"

After a moment's hesitation, Carrington nodded, gloomily.

"Say, that's tough! Lose much?"

Again the lawyer nodded.

"That is tough! How did it happen?"

"It happened," said Jean, in a curiously low and vibrant tone, "because he refused to be—bribed."

Carrington, who had been concocting a lie that should spare the illusions of the kindly and simple man across the table, heard the words, and sat perfectly motionless, like one stunned, trying to determine what possible significance they could have, coming from her lips.

"Oh!" exclaimed the other auditor, with new interest. "Mebbe you're one of the fellows that's been up against a big corporation."

"Something like that," said the girl.

"He was employed to investigate certain—abuses."

As Carrington turned swiftly, his pulses pounding and in his eyes one burning question, she paled and shrank a little from him, but she did not remove her steady gaze from the sympathetic, seamed face opposite.

"Muck-raking, eh?"

"Yes. And when he got into this case, he found that it involved the—the exposure of a friend—a very special friend of his. When this man and his—associates—found out what was going to happen, they tried to stop the investigation, and when that failed, they—they tried to—influence—"

"They tried to bribe—him?" Incredulously he glanced at Carrington.

"Not at first. They tried arguments—persuasion—threats—"

"And they finally got him where they could squeeze him!"

"Yes,—that's what it amounted to."

"But—hadn't you any friends to stand by you? Where were his friends?"

"Jean!" breathed Carrington. "Jean!"

She lifted her hand to check him.

"He had one friend who could have helped him. Just one—a woman. He went to her and begged her to understand—but she wouldn't. The man whom he had to attack was—was a relative of hers, and—" She hesitated a moment.

"Oh, well! I guess nobody could expect her to go back on her own people!"

"She might at least have been honest, but she wasn't! For when everything else had failed, it was she—this woman who might have saved him—who tried to bribe him."

"No! You don't say!" The man leaned his elbows on the table, intent on the story.

Carrington's eyes blazed from a white face, and the girl continued, bitterly:

"She offered him what she knew he wanted most in all the world, if he would use his position and his power to—to screen her relative. And when he refused, she discarded him. She sent him away. She said she hoped she might never see him again. And all the time she knew—down in her heart she knew perfectly well that he was right and that her father was—"

"He was more sinned against than sinning," hoarsely interrupted Carrington. "He was old—and not very keen; he was a tool in the hands of a stronger man. I tried to bring that out."

Again she checked him with a gesture, refusing to meet his gaze, and by her own steady regard keeping him reminded of the listener across the table, to whom she apparently spoke. The man was now looking from one to the other, puzzled by evidences of a strong, uncharted undercurrent. "And when it was all over, she had to face—the truth. She had to realize what she had done—and been—"

"Never mind all that, Jean!" broke hoarsely from Carrington. "Was there—nothing else?"

"I say she had to face the truth—about herself and—him." She was very pale now, and her trembling hands tightly gripped the cold marble. "Even then she might have saved him—something, but she was a coward—and proud,—and in all the months since, she has never lifted an eyelash to help him—or to make reparation."

"That was pretty mean," slowly commented the man opposite. "Pretty mean. Now, you couldn't do a thing like that to save your life!"

"No," quickly interpolated Carrington, anticipating confession, "she couldn't."

Jean lifted her glance, which had fallen, and her eyes were very sombre. "I did once," she said. "I'm not— You are mistaken about me. I quarrelled with him, once,—because he was stronger than I—and for months I wouldn't speak to him—nor see him—nor answer his letters—although all the time I knew—" She faltered, her ebbing self-control further drained by the intensity of Carrington's gaze. "And then, one day, I had to speak to him about something,—and I was glad. But even then I wouldn't admit that there was anything better or bigger than my pride—and I was angry because I was glad; and I was hard—and bitter—when T wasn't flippant and silly, because—because I was so afraid he would see—I deliberately hurt him—humiliated him—when I ought to have been begging—"

"No, no! Jean! Don't!"

"But, you see, you ain't like the other woman, after all," said the old man, gently, "and there's no use feeling bad about it now, because in the end you made up for it. Didn't she?" He smiled at Carrington.

"She's making up for it—for everything—every instant!" The lawyer's voice shook.

"Of course she is! That's what I say. It's worth losing a good deal—and bearing a good deal—just to be sure that now, whatever happens, she'll stick to you to the end."

"Yes," said Carrington; "and you will,—won't you, Jean?"

She let him see deep into her eyes for an instant, as she answered, tremulously, "To the very end." The man across the table nodded. "I know," said he. "My wife was like that, too. Well," with a change of tone, "I guess they're going to shut this place up in a few minutes, and we'd better be going. But see here, young man, I want you should take this." He slipped a half-dollar across the table to Carrington. "'Tain't much, but I can spare it, and I'd hate to think that mebbe you two didn't have any breakfast."

The younger man needed no prompting this time, nor was it possible to mistake the sincerity of his gratitude as he accepted the coin.

"Thank you. Will you give me your name and address, please? I shall pay this back in a few days."

"My name's John King, and I'm working for the Baker and Pedgett Company; but there's no hurry, you know. I can spare it."

"I understand, but I shall look you up soon. I don't want to lose sight of you; and I hope the time may come when I can do as much for you as you've done for me to-night—but it never will!"

The other's eyes widened in astonishment. "Me? Oh, you mean the steak and biscuits!" He laughed genially. "I guess you never were broke before! You pay that back to some other fellow who's in the same fix some day. That 'll be all right."

When they had parted from John King, Carrington asked:

"And now, dear, shall we go up to the theatre and borrow money from Jim Sawyer to get home on?"

"Oh no! I don't want to see people—yet," she said, a little catch in her voice. "Let's—let's go and pawn your watch!"