He went back through the area, entered his studio and dressed in his shabby street clothes. The cheque was still lying on a small table where Cleland had placed it at his request. And now he picked it up, dipped a rusty pen into an ink-bottle, and indorsed the cheque, making it payable to Anne O’Hara. Then he took his straw hat and went out. The girl was waiting. "Anne," he said, "I want you to read what’s written on this pretty perforated piece of paper." He held it so that the electric light fell on it. "Is it good?" she asked in an awed voice. "Perfectly." He turned the cheque over and showed her the indorsement. She found her voice presently: "What are you putting over on me?" He said: "I’d give this cheque to you now, but it wouldn’t be any good when the banks open to-morrow." She stared her question, and he laughed: "It’s a law concerning cheques. Never mind. But there’s a way to beat it. I had a lot of money once. They’ll take my paper at Square Jack Hennesey’s. Shall we stroll up that way?" She did not understand. It was quite evident that she had no faith in the scrap of paper either. But it was still more evident that she was willing to remain with him, even at the loss of professional opportunities—even though she was facing the obloquy of being "kidded." "Come into my studio first," he said. She went without protest. In the brightly lighted basement he turned and scrutinized her coolly from head to foot. "How old?" he asked bluntly. "Seventeen." "How long are you on the job?" "Two years." "Whose are you?" "I’m for myself——" "Come on! Don’t lie!" She straightened her thin finger in defiance: "What are you? A bull?" "You know I’m not. Who are you working for? Wait! Never mind! You’re working for somebody, aren’t you?" "Y-yes." "Do your folks know it?" "No." "What was it—cloaks, feathers, department store?" She nodded. "You _can_ go back?" She remained silent, and he repeated the question. Then the girl turned white under her paint. "Damn you!" she said, "what are you trying to do to me?" "Send you home, Anne, with a couple of thousand real money. Will you go?" "Show it to me!" she said, but her voice had become childish and tremulous and her painted mouth was quivering. "I’m going to show it to you," he said pleasantly. "I’ll get it at Square Jack’s for you. If I do will you fly the coop? I mean now, to-night! Will you?" "W-with you?" "Dear child, I’ve got to cross that dirty Jersey river. I told you. You live up state, don’t you?" "Yes." "Where?" "Hudson." "All right. Will you go now, just as you are? You’d stand a fat chance if you went back and tried to pack up. That thing would batter you to a pulp, wouldn’t he?" She nodded.