She caught the look of hostility in the street-waif’s eyes. She was taking the man away. There was another look, the meaning of which she did not miss. Routledge bent down to him.
“Good-by, little soul,” he said. “I’ll find you in some doorway again some time—maybe in the doorway to fame. Be a good little fellow always. Don’t get tired of being clean, and some time you’ll be mighty glad.”
The boy watched the carriage move slowly away among the truckage—until a stranger put a hand upon his shoulder.
For many seconds neither spoke; then it was Noreen.
“What is this big thing you are doing, Routledge-san?”
“I cannot tell—even you.”
“Yes, but you need not have hurt me so. You were going away without a word to me—and I am so proud to have been for you—against the others.”
“Noreen, you must believe that it is not good for you to be seen with me now. Every movement I make is known; everyone in the slightest communication with me is under suspicion. Your loyalty—I cannot even speak of steadily, it is so big and dear—and because it is so, I shudder to drag you into these forlorn fortunes of mine. It is in the power of these people to make you very miserable while I am gone—and that is anguish to me, nothing less.”
“You think of me—think of me always, and a little social matter which concerns me!” she exclaimed. “I care nothing for it—oh, please believe that. Last night you left the Armory, not knowing what had befallen you. This morning you know all. Could you have done unconsciously—anything to turn the Hate of London upon you?... It is not in reason. I believe it is just and right for me to know what my father told you in the night—but you will not tell me——”