Then, half ashamed of her outburst, she turned her back to him and stood gazing at the small coal fire. It was as well for K. that she did not see his face. For that one moment the despair that was in him shone in his eyes. He glanced around the shabby little room, at the sagging bed, the collar-box, the pincushion, the old marble-topped bureau under which Reginald had formerly made his nest, at his untidy table, littered with pipes and books, at the image in the mirror of his own tall figure, stooped and weary. “It's real, all this?” he asked after a pause. “You're sure it's not just--glamour, Sidney?” “It's real--terribly real.” Her voice was muffled, and he knew then that she was crying. She was mightily ashamed of it. Tears, of course, except in the privacy of one's closet, were not ethical on the Street. “Perhaps he cares very much, too.” “Give me a handkerchief,” said Sidney in a muffled tone, and the little scene was broken into while K. searched through a bureau drawer. Then: “It's all over, anyhow, since this. If he'd really cared he'd have come over to-night. When one is in trouble one needs friends.” Back in a circle she came inevitably to her suspension. She would never go back, she said passionately. She was innocent, had been falsely accused. If they could think such a thing about her, she didn't want to be in their old hospital. K. questioned her, alternately soothing and probing. “You are positive about it?” “Absolutely. I have given him his medicines dozens of times.” “You looked at the label?” “I swear I did, K.” “Who else had access to the medicine closet?” “Carlotta Harrison carried the keys, of course. I was off duty from four to six. When Carlotta left the ward, the probationer would have them.” “Have you reason to think that either one of these girls would wish you harm?” “None whatever,” began Sidney vehemently; and then, checking herself,--“unless--but that's rather ridiculous.” “What is ridiculous?” “I've sometimes thought that Carlotta--but I am sure she is perfectly fair with me. Even if she--if she--” “Yes?” “Even if she likes Dr. Wilson, I don't believe--Why, K., she wouldn't! It would be murder.” “Murder, of course,” said K., “in intention, anyhow. Of course she didn't do it. I'm only trying to find out whose mistake it was.” Soon after that she said good-night and went out. She turned in the doorway and smiled tremulously back at him. “You have done me a lot of good. You almost make me believe in myself.” “That's because I believe in you.” With a quick movement that was one of her charms, Sidney suddenly closed the door and slipped back into the room. K., hearing the door close, thought she had gone, and dropped heavily into a chair. “My best friend in all the world!” said Sidney suddenly from behind him, and, bending over, she kissed him on the cheek. The next instant the door had closed behind her, and K. was left alone to such wretchedness and bliss as the evening had brought him.