And here I stood before Jerry shaking with my uncertainty of him! He saw it. An impulse swept over me to seize him and drag him through that door to an arrest; for the instant, I stood before Jerry, not as his brother who believed in him--I who had given my word to believe in him--but as a representative of society which hunted him for his treacherous, savage attack upon Dorothy Crewe. For the instant, I saw him as others thought,--my brother with a beast inside him which had struck, through him, at Dorothy Crewe. Then the sight of his face heaped upon me too many other memories of Jerry and me through twenty-eight years. He was not quite as he had been; how could he be? He was hunted for crime; for nine days he had known that all his world--all the world which we had made his--believed he had committed that attack on Dorothy Crewe. And she had believed! So it showed in his eyes; it lined his lip stiffer and more defiantly; it cast something harder into his whole countenance. Of course his clothes made him different, too, for he had on a heavy, badly cut suit of cheap wool such as roustabouts and deckhands wear; he had a Mackinaw coat and cap on the chair behind him. “I’ve got to get out, Steve,” he said to me. “That’s why I stopped you.” “You’ve been here all the time?” He nodded. “In Chicago,” he said. The girl had been keeping away from us, but she stepped up beside him; and I saw again the corn color of her hair, which was like Dorothy Crewe’s. She had blue eyes, too; otherwise, she was not like Dorothy. She was pert and bold, this girl--a sort to get what she went after. What was she to Jerry? I wondered. Where had he found her? What was her business here to-night with him? “He’s got to have coin, Steve, don’t you see?” she said to me. “Why?” “Why?” She laughed at me. “Ain’t nobody after him? Oh, perhaps you ain’t heard? You don’t read the papers; maybe you don’t read. Can’t Steve read, Jerry?” Jerry made no reply but to shake his head a little at her; then he watched me. “D’you suppose,” Christina continued to me, “it’s worth nothing to nobody--whoever sees him or gives him a hand or a cot or a meal--to do a squeal? Is everybody in this city so elegantly fixed that nobody could possibly find any use for twenty thousand smackers?” “Keep still, Christina,” Jerry said. “How much do you need?” I asked him. “How much can you drag with you?” the girl kept at me. “When you got to buy yourself past bulls and beefers, who can drag down twenty thou by simply settin’ the squeal, how far do you suppose a dime’ll go toward squarin’ ’em?” “Cut it, Christina,” Jerry said this time. “Steve doesn’t know how to be mean.” “Don’t this time,” she shot at me. “Have it with you along here at ten to-morrow night. If the old man can stick up ten thou to get him, can’t you find something like it to help him away?” And she switched out the light.