But in the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city until she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straight figure with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once again he had defeated his own plans for flight. In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back? Why not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her. But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her room. Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with the effort and with a new excitement. “This is the letter, K., and--I haven't been able to say what I wanted, exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I blame myself?” K. promised gravely. “And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been! Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants you to come back.” The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and an electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, as it turned, the ward was trying to sleep. Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to him. A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for ever since it came his hot hand had clutched it. He was quite sure that somehow or other K. had had a hand in it. When he disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered. “It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow,” he said. “But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no charity.” “Maybe Mr. Howe sent it.” “You can bet your last match he didn't.” In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend, Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully. “He works in the gas office,” he said, “I've seen him there. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?” But the story had seized on his imagination. “Say, Mr. Le Moyne.” “Yes, Jack.” He called him “Jack.” The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a state license? “They've got a queer story about you here in the ward.” “Not scandal, I trust, Jack!” “They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson and saved his life. They say that you're the king pin where you came from.” He eyed K. wistfully. “I know it's a damn lie, but if it's true--” “I used to be a surgeon. As a matter of fact I operated on Dr. Wilson to-day. I--I am rather apologetic, Jack, because I didn't explain to you sooner. For--various reasons--I gave up that--that line of business. To-day they rather forced my hand.” “Don't you think you could do something for me, sir?” When K. did not reply at once, he launched into an explanation.