n the end he prevailed on her to promise not to leave the city
until she had seen him again. It was not until she had gone, a straight
figure with haunted eyes, that he reflected whimsically that once again
he had defeated his own plans for flight.

In the corridor outside the door Carlotta hesitated. Why not go back?
Why not tell him? He was kind; he was going to do something for her.
But the old instinct of self-preservation prevailed. She went on to her
room.

Sidney brought her letter to Joe back to K. She was flushed with the
effort and with a new excitement.

"This is the letter, K., and--I haven't been able to say what I wanted,
exactly. You'll let him know, won't you, how I feel, and how I blame
myself?"

K. promised gravely.

"And the most remarkable thing has happened. What a day this has been!
Somebody has sent Johnny Rosenfeld a lot of money. The ward nurse wants
you to come back."

The ward had settled for the night. The well-ordered beds of the daytime
were chaotic now, torn apart by tossing figures. The night was hot and
an electric fan hummed in a far corner. Under its sporadic breezes, as
it turned, the ward was trying to sleep.

Johnny Rosenfeld was not asleep. An incredible thing had happened to
him. A fortune lay under his pillow. He was sure it was there, for ever
since it came his hot hand had clutched it.

He was quite sure that somehow or other K. had had a hand in it. When he
disclaimed it, the boy was bewildered.

"It'll buy the old lady what she wants for the house, anyhow," he
said. "But I hope nobody's took up a collection for me. I don't want no
charity."

"Maybe Mr. Howe sent it."

"You can bet your last match he didn't."

In some unknown way the news had reached the ward that Johnny's friend,
Mr. Le Moyne, was a great surgeon. Johnny had rejected it scornfully.

"He works in the gas office," he said, "I've seen him there. If he's a
surgeon, what's he doing in the gas office. If he's a surgeon, what's he
doing teaching me raffia-work? Why isn't he on his job?"

But the story had seized on his imagination.

"Say, Mr. Le Moyne."

"Yes, Jack."

He called him "Jack." The boy liked it. It savored of man to man. After
all, he was a man, or almost. Hadn't he driven a car? Didn't he have a
state license?

"They've got a queer story about you here in the ward."

"Not scandal, I trust, Jack!"

"They say that you're a surgeon; that you operated on Dr. Wilson and
saved his