"I like to come here after seeing that old bear," Elinor had often said to the Assistant District Attorney. "Mr. Higgins is beginning to hate the sight of me." "You see that I do not," invariably would be his answer; and, waving her to a seat, he would take one beside her and the two would chat. Elinor was forced to admit that Leech became nicer as time went on. Always he suggested new hopes, new speculations, for he saw that it took but little to encourage her. He explained to her carefully the quasi-judicial nature of his office, how the District Attorney in theory was neither for nor against the criminal, but was always anxious, ready and willing to learn the truth. Soon he began to note that the girl grew shabbier in appearance day after day; that her face was thinning, and that her eyes were dark and lustrous. "I'll do what I can," he had told her time and time again, his pulse quickening as he felt the pressure of her hand. And Elinor would go forth, refreshed and strengthened; while Leech, settling himself comfortably back in his chair, would light a cigar, and fall to wondering when and what the end of it all would be. "A pretty girl," he often reflected, "a mighty pretty girl. And, oh, such eyes!" It was upon just such an occasion as this that Elinor went back to the Tombs more than ordinarily encouraged, and sought her father's presence. She sat down beside him and poured out to him her hopes. When she had finished he bent over her slender hand and his mouth quivered while the hot tears dropped from his working face. "We've lost," he told her, in a voice filled with despair. "I heard it only a few moments ago." "It can't be true," she replied incredulously, and with just the glimmer of a smile on her face. "Why, I've just left Mr. Leech, and he said nothing of it." But nevertheless it was true. The old man handed her Higgins' letter, which she read; it verified what her father had told her. "I've worked so hard," she faltered, leaning her head against the bars and sobbing silently as though her heart would break, "so very, very hard." Ilingsworth drew a long sigh--a sigh that had behind it the regret of years. "It's all my fault," he said through the tears that rolled down his cheeks, "for being such a fool as to----" "As to----" she repeated slowly. "As to do anything at all," he finished. "Everything, everything I've done," he continued sadly, "has been the act of a fool. And now I'm going to die a fool's death. I wouldn't care if it wasn't for you, child. But you--how are you going to get along? How are you going to get along without money?" he concluded, breaking down completely. "I have enough," she answered consolingly; "don't mind me." But in truth Elinor Ilingsworth had only enough money to pay for a sleeping place, and was at her wits' end to obtain sufficient food.