Presently they both noticed that the cab had stopped—had probably been standing for some time in front of the station; and that several red-capped porters were watching them.
"My name is Lily Hollis," she said, "and I live at Whitebrook Farm, Westchester. . . . I am not coming to New York again—and never again to that hotel. . . . But I would like to talk to you—a little."
He thought a moment.
"Do you want a gambler to call on you, Miss Hollis?"
"Yes," she said.
"Then he will do it. When?"
"To-morrow."
He passed his hand over his marred young face.
"Yes," he said quietly, "to-morrow."
He looked up and met her eyes, smiled, opened the door, and stepped to the sidewalk. Then he went with her to her train. She turned at the gates and held out her hand to him; and, hat in hand, he bent his battered head and touched her gloves with twitching lips.