From where she sat she could see Gay's white dress as a spot against the dark brick of the house across the way, and that spot she watched, all her plans in chaos, knowing only that if the spot disappeared she must rush across and keep Gay safe, no matter what else happened. When she returned from Lem's room, she looked across with fear, and breathed her thanks, for Gay was still there. Almost immediately Freeman came across the street. He was not in a pleasant mood. “Freeman,” Henrietta said. “My God! Again? What is it now?” he asked. “What is it now? Throwing the blame for your thievery on that poor boy! Hasn't he enough to bear without that? You are low--that is the only name for it--low!” “Fine! Fine and oratorical and everything, Et!” Freeman said carelessly. “Only--I did not throw any blame on him. Not that I care, you know,” he added. “Freeman, don't lie to me. You put that money in his pocket.” “Oh, no, I did n't!” Freeman laughed, and he held up Miss Susan's bank-notes. “I need this money. And I have this money, and I am going to keep this money.” “I don't understand,” said Henrietta. “How did you get it again? Did you take it from her a second time?” “Oh, quit it!” Freeman said disgustedly. “Don't be stupid. This is not the money Lem had. I've had this all the while. I don't know where the little devil got his. What does it matter? Maybe she had two wads. What do I care?” “I care,” Henrietta said. “I'm going to clear out,” Freeman said. “Last you'll ever see of me.” He turned toward the door leading into the house. “Freeman, what about Gay?” “None of your dear business, Et,” he said. Henrietta heard him tiptoe softly up the stairs. She sat a minute longer, thinking, and then went into the house herself, and up the stairs. There are times when heroic actions seem the only solution of great difficulties, but, however much a heroic act might add to the glory of this narrative, it was not Henrietta's fortune to rise to great heights now. She paused at Freeman's door and listened, then opened his door. Freeman sat on a chair at the end of his bed, in shirt and underwear, changing his socks. On a chair close to Henrietta's hand lay his two pairs of trousers--the one pair crumpled on the seat of the chair; the other, newly pressed, laid carefully across the chair back. With a sweep of her arm Henrietta gathered up both pairs of trousers, backed from the room, and closed the door. For a few moments, perhaps, Freeman did not realize the full extent of the catastrophe, but in another moment he did. What locked doors, tears, and pleadings cannot do, the loss of a man's trousers can do. In the dark hall, before Freeman could reach his door, Henrietta disposed of her gleanings. “Et!” Freeman whispered: “Et! Bring those back!” “Bring what?” she answered. “My pants. Bring them back, and mighty quick.” “I don't know what you are talking about,” she said. “You must be drunk. I know nothing about your pants. Go to bed.”