"Uh-huh," Butch nodded. "Fell outa your bag when you side-stepped the Old Man and beat it, last night. He didn't see it, and I sneaked the bunch while he wasn't lookin'. G'wan--take it." He thrust the money into her fingers that closed convulsively upon it. For a moment she choked and gulped, on the verge of tears, so overpowering was the sense of relief. "O Butch--!" "Ah, cut that out. It's your money, all right--ain't it?" She began with trembling fingers to count the bills. Butch tilted his head to one side and regarded her with undisguised disgust. "Say, you must have a swell opinion of me, kid, to think I'd hold out on you!" She stared bewildered. "There's twenty-two dollars here, Butch!" Her hand moved out as if offering to return the money. With an angry movement he slapped it back and turned away. "That's right," he muttered sourly. "I slipped an extra ten in. I guess I gotta right to, ain't I? You're my sister, and you'll need it before you get through, all right." She lingered, stunned. "But, Butch ... I oughtn't to...." "Ah, can that guff--and beat it. The Old Man's liable to be back any minute." Seizing her suit-case, he urged her none too gently toward the door. "It's awful' good of you, Butch--awful' good--" "All right--all right. But can the gush-thing till next time." Overwhelmed, Joan permitted herself to be thrust out of the door; and then, recovering to some extent, masked her excitement as best she could and trudged away across-town, back toward Central Park. Blind instinct urged her to that refuge where she would have quiet and peace while she thought things out: a necessity which had not existed until within the last fifteen minutes. Before her interview with Butch she had been penniless and planless. But now she found herself in circumstances of comparative affluence and independence. Twenty-two dollars strictly economized surely ought to keep her fed and sheltered in decent lodgings for at least three weeks; within which time she would quite as surely find employment of some sort. It remained to decide how best to conserve her resources. On the face of the situation, she had nothing to do but seek the cheapest and meanest rooming-house in the city. But in her heart of hearts she had already determined to return to the establishment of Madame Duprat, beyond her means though it might be, ostensibly to await the return of the Dancing Deans, secretly that she might be under the same roof with John Matthias. And in the end it was to Number 289 that she turned. At half-past four she stood again on the brown-stone stoop, waiting an answer to her ring. And at the same moment, John Matthias, handsomely garbed in the best of his wardrobe but otherwise invested in a temper both indignant and rebellious, instituted a dash from room to train, handicapped by a time-limit ridiculously brief.