“Any answer?” he asked.
“No answer, kid,” replied Byrne, “that I can't take myself,” and he tossed a dollar to the worshiping boy.
An hour later Billy Byrne was ascending the broad, white steps that led to the entrance of Anthony Harding's New York house. The servant who answered his ring eyed him suspiciously, for Billy Byrne still dressed like a teamster on holiday. He had no card!
“Tell Miss Harding that Mr. Byrne has come,” he said.
The servant left him standing in the hallway, and started to ascend the great staircase, but halfway up he met Miss Harding coming down.
“Never mind, Smith,” she said. “I am expecting Mr. Byrne,” and then seeing that the fellow had not seated her visitor she added, “He is a very dear friend.” Smith faded quickly from the scene.
“Billy!” cried the girl, rushing toward him with out-stretched hands. “O Billy, we thought you were dead. How long have you been here? Why haven't you been to see me?”
Byrne hesitated.
A great, mad hope had been surging through his being since he had read of the broken engagement and received the girl's note. And now in her eyes, in her whole attitude, he could read, as unmistakably as though her lips had formed the words that he had not hoped in vain.
But some strange influence had seemed suddenly to come to work upon him. Even in the brief moment of his entrance into the magnificence of Anthony Harding's home he had felt a strange little stricture of the throat—a choking, half-suffocating sensation.