“Why do you punish me this way, Routledge-san?... Do you think I mind what London cares or thinks? Do you think London could force me to believe ill of you?... I must talk with you! May we not go up into your rooms, out of the crowd and the rain? The little boy may come.” There was not a window commanding the street which might not have held the White Mustache that moment; not a single passer-by who might not have been one of his kind. “I have turned in my--that is, I have given up my room,” he faltered. “I must talk with you. Come into my carriage. That will be the better way. The little boy----” She caught the look of hostility in the street-waif’s eyes. She was taking the man away. There was another look, the meaning of which she did not miss. Routledge bent down to him. “Good-by, little soul,” he said. “I’ll find you in some doorway again some time--maybe in the doorway to fame. Be a good little fellow always. Don’t get tired of being clean, and some time you’ll be mighty glad.” The boy watched the carriage move slowly away among the truckage--until a stranger put a hand upon his shoulder. * * * * * For many seconds neither spoke; then it was Noreen. “What is this big thing you are doing, Routledge-san?” “I cannot tell--even you.” “Yes, but you need not have hurt me so. You were going away without a word to me--and I am so proud to have been for you--against the others.” “Noreen, you must believe that it is not good for you to be seen with me now. Every movement I make is known; everyone in the slightest communication with me is under suspicion. Your loyalty--I cannot even speak of steadily, it is so big and dear--and because it is so, I shudder to drag you into these forlorn fortunes of mine. It is in the power of these people to make you very miserable while I am gone--and that is anguish to me, nothing less.” “You think of me--think of me always, and a little social matter which concerns me!” she exclaimed. “I care nothing for it--oh, please believe that. Last night you left the Armory, not knowing what had befallen you. This morning you know all. Could you have done unconsciously--anything to turn the Hate of London upon you?... It is not in reason. I believe it is just and right for me to know what my father told you in the night--but you will not tell me----” “This thing is mine to carry--to carry alone. Last night I laughed. To-day I find that it is not a thing to laugh at. The Hate of London,”--Routledge carved out the words slowly and clearly, in spite of the resistance of his whole humanity--“I have brought upon myself.” “Not with dishonor!” He was silent. “Not with dishonor, Routledge-san!” she whispered triumphantly, peering into his eyes. “You could not convey a falsehood to me, not even to shield another--not even if you uttered the words of the lie. Your eyes would tell the truth to me!”