"But how——" she began.
"I can't tell you," he put in swiftly. "I've promised to keep silent. I can only say that I was given a very large sum of money to carry out certain conditions, and that those conditions carry with them no loss of self-respect. What I want you to do is to take a little—just a little—of this money to tide you over this period of hard luck."
A sudden color flamed into her face, and her lips parted. Before she could utter a word Barry went on pleadingly:
"Please don't say no, Miss Rives. The situation is desperate. If this girl friend of yours has moved, what will you do? Even if she is still there, I don't suppose you would keep on accepting hospitality from one who probably couldn't afford it. I can, you see, and if you'll only look upon me as Phil's friend, acting in his place, I'm sure you won't refuse."
For a long minute the girl sat staring into his frank, kindly face with eyes which seemed to plumb his very soul. Perhaps it was what she saw there that made her give in; perhaps it was the thoughts which flashed through her mind of the awful streets, wind-swept and dark and bitter cold, with even more poignant terrors lurking in the shadows. At all events, she sighed faintly, and reached for her gloves.
"Very well, Mr. Lawrence," she said quietly. "You may lend me—ten dollars."
"But that isn't——"
"It is quite enough," she put in decidedly, "to make me grateful to you as long as I live. Would you mind—if we go now? It's getting late."
Without further protest, Barry paid the bill at once, and helped her on with her coat. As they reached the street he handed her a ten-dollar bill, which she slipped into her worn glove with another brief word of thanks.
The ride uptown was a rather silent one. Barry did most of the talking, for he felt that the girl would rather say little.