"I can't take your money for taking care of her, Mr. Harmon. I should forever despise myself if I did. It would be bad luck to me."
"Well, what can I do for you? I can't let you go like that!"
Armitage remained silent. Then, turning suddenly, he said:
"There's only one thing I could accept from you, Mr. Harmon."
"What is that?" demanded the railroad magnate eagerly.
"Something that even you, rich as you are, cannot give me. You wouldn't give it me if you could. Good day, Mr. Harmon."
Armitage went out and, as he passed the astonished financier, he gave a last lingering look at the oil portrait which filled the space over the mantel.
CHAPTER XX.
In a cheap, grimy-looking hash-house on Third Avenue Armitage sat alone at a table, partaking with apparent relish of the rough yet not unwholesome fare which his slender purse could afford to pay for. The hour being late, he had exclusively to himself the services of the one greasy and cadaverous waiter, while the proprietor of the restaurant, if the "joint" might be dignified by so respectable a name, sat behind his rostrum near the window, sulkily reckoning up the day's receipts.