"You did--God knows." He himself was trembling a little; his face had
turned very white.
"Then--then----" she forced her courage--lifted her frightened eyes,
braving mockery and misconstruction--"then--is there a chance of
my--helping you--further?"
For a moment her flushed face and timid question perplexed him; then the
quick blood reddened his face, and he stared at her in silence.
"I--I can't help it," she faltered. "I believe in you--and in--salvation.
. . . Please don't say anything to--hurt me."
"No," he said, still staring, "no, of course not. And--and thank you. You
are very kind. . . . You are _very_ kind. . . . I suppose you heard
somebody say--what I am."
"Yes. . . . But that was long ago."
"Oh, you knew--you have known--for some time?"
"Yes."
He sat thinking for a while.
Presently they both noticed that the cab had stopped--had probably been
standing for some time in front of the station; and that several
red-capped porters were watching them.
"My name is Lily Hollis," she said, "and I live at Whitebrook Farm,
Westchester. . . . I am not coming to New York again--and never again to
that hotel. . . . But I would like to talk to you--a little."
He thought a moment.
"Do you want a gambler to call on you, Miss Hollis?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then he will do it. When?"
"To-morrow."
He passed his hand over his marred young face.
"Yes," he said quietly, "to-morrow."
He looked up and met her eyes, smiled, opened the door, and stepped to
the sidewalk. Then he went with her to her train. She turned at the gates
and held out her hand to him; and, hat in hand, he bent his battered head
and touched her gloves with twitching lips.
"To-morrow?"
"Certainly."