“It’s a long way to Albany before that,” she said.
“It’s a long way to One-Hundred-and-Tenth Street, Miss Musser, but it is easier than taking money from a girl.”
She breathed relief. “I came to fight it out here in New York on the same terms you did,” she said. “You can pay me back.”
Now his back was toward her, his face uplifted. She saw his hand grope for the knob of the door, and his shoulders rock weakly. She caught his arm and pulled him back to a chair.
“You see, you really couldn’t get away.”
He had suffered her to lead him to a dining-room chair, and sat very still, his head tilted back, eyes closed. She took the little package of bills from her dress and tucked it into his hand. There were voices in the hall; a vague frown crossed his white temples.
“What is it?” he said queerly.
“You are faint. I’ll go with you to a near place for something to eat. That’s all you need. Come—if you can walk a little way.”
He stood in a sort of confusion, holding the folded bills in his hand as one would hold a card.
“Put that in your pocket,” she said, but he did not seem to comprehend.