Tom, seeing his chance to escape, slipped out and took refuge in the Morgan's flat. The closing door roused David from his light sleep. He slowly opened his eyes—opened them upon the white face looking down upon him. The face seemed unreal, merely the face in a frequent dream. He closed his eyes, then opened them. The face was still there.... A great, wild, dizzy thrill went through him.
Slowly his haggard face rose from the pillow and he rested upon his elbow. "Miss Chambers!" he whispered, at length.
For moments she could only stare back at him—the friend once admired, who by his own confession had stolen the money of tenement children, had gambled it away, had counted on the guilt falling upon Morton. Then her voice, straining at steadiness, came out, and haltingly spoke the nearest thing that did not require thought—an explanation of her presence.
Her words hardly reached his mind. There was only one thing, the dizzy, impossible fact—she was before him! His body was chill, fire; his mind was chaos.
"You have been sick long?" she asked.
He took control of himself by a supreme effort. "For two weeks. It's nothing—just the grip."
"The boy told me for three months."
"That's just an invention of Tom's." He was conscious that, at his words, a look of doubt flitted across her face.
She had wondered, as he had done, what her attitude toward him should be, if chance ever brought them together—what it should be if he were striving to live honorably—what, if he had slipped down and were living by thievery. At this moment, without conscious thought, her attitude was established. But, though decision was against him, he was helpless, in need.
"Is there anything at all that I can do for you?" she asked.