“You haven’t enough for the ferry or tube?” Their eyes met. “What I said last night holds good, you know,” she said with effort. He turned slowly to the door as if in indecision, and Pidge watched. She knew she could make him take the money, but she wanted him to be ready to die first. “There was nothing in the other stories, either--from Higgins’ point of view?” he asked. Pidge was white. She felt like an executioner. “The package was mailed back to you to-day.” For just an instant his head was bowed again, half turned to the door. Then he veered around and his hand came out to hers. “Good night,” he said. “Good night. But you--that quiet room in Cleveland----” He shook his head with a slow, dawning smile. “It’s great to know you. I’ve heard about such people being here in the Village, but it’s--‘It’s fourteen miles from Schenectady to Troy.’” “It’s a long way to Albany before that,” she said. “It’s a long way to One-Hundred-and-Tenth Street, Miss Musser, but it is easier than taking money from a girl.” She breathed relief. “I came to fight it out here in New York on the same terms you did,” she said. “You can pay me back.” Now his back was toward her, his face uplifted. She saw his hand grope for the knob of the door, and his shoulders rock weakly. She caught his arm and pulled him back to a chair. “You see, you really couldn’t get away.” He had suffered her to lead him to a dining-room chair, and sat very still, his head tilted back, eyes closed. She took the little package of bills from her dress and tucked it into his hand. There were voices in the hall; a vague frown crossed his white temples. “What is it?” he said queerly. “You are faint. I’ll go with you to a near place for something to eat. That’s all you need. Come--if you can walk a little way.” He stood in a sort of confusion, holding the folded bills in his hand as one would hold a card. “Put that in your pocket,” she said, but he did not seem to comprehend. They were in the street, her hand steadying him. They found a dim restaurant with a counter and a few tables. He did not speak until the waiter came; then asked for coffee. Pidge had taken the money and thrust it into his coat pocket. Now she was tormented with the fear that he would lose the small roll, not knowing that he had it. She had not brought her own purse. He would be forced to pay; then he would have to see what he had. He drank the coffee first, then ate sparingly. “I learned that in the desert,” he said at last. “Learned what, please?” “Not to go mad over the taste of food when one has been without.”