John Hungerford hungry—begging for something to eat! The epicure, the prodigal, who, in days gone by, had never denied himself any luxury that he had craved, now absolutely penniless and shabby, almost starving! And that cough—how it racked him!
A thrill of horror ran through her; she clenched her hands in an effort to repress the cry of dismay that arose to her lips.
"Where are you staying?" she forced herself to inquire, with an appearance of composure.
"I don't know where I shall stay to-night," he faltered. "To-morrow I am going back to San Francisco; Uncle Nathan has sent me a ticket."
So he had not even a place to lay his head that night, and the few cents which he claimed to have surely would not provide him the humblest lodging, let alone something to appease his hunger.
"Wait," said Helen, and, turning abruptly from him, a choking sensation in her throat, she swept into the library. Going to her desk, she wrote a few words upon a blank card, after which she opened a drawer, drew forth a crisp new bank note, and hastily folded it, with the numerals out of sight. She then returned to the hall, and slipped the card, with the money underneath, into the man's hand.
"Here is the address of a good woman who sometimes works for me," she said. "She lives not far from here; take the first turn to the right, going downtown; the third street from there is Broad Street. Turn to your left, find number ninety-five, and Mrs. Harding lives on the lower floor. She will give you a comfortable room for the night and a good breakfast in the morning."
As she concluded, Helen turned the catch and opened the door leading to the outer hall. She was trembling violently, and her face was as colorless as marble.
John Hungerford stood for a moment, regarding her with a hopeless, heartbroken look; then, with bowed head and faltering steps, he passed out upon the landing.
"Thank you; good-by—Helen," he breathed hoarsely.