she would have been the first to extend her hand. I'm a self-made
man myself," he added proudly. "There's nothing snobbish about me, and I
hope there isn't about my daughter. You'll come up-stairs with me now
and be introduced to everybody as the man who saved her."

Armitage shook his head.

"No--it isn't you--it's the world. It's not ourselves--it's because
we're afraid of what the world, our neighbors, will think. No, I
wouldn't embarrass your daughter. Besides, I've no wish to be put on
exhibition."

Mr. Harmon, puzzled, scratched his head.

"Well, what can we do to show our gratitude? Let me give you a little
present."

He took out his check-book, and, sitting down, wrote an order to bearer
for $10,000.

"Here, Mr. Armitage. This is far cheaper than I value my daughter. But
it will make life easy for you. You can start some business--be
practically independent for life. Here, my boy, take it with a father's
gratitude."

He passed the check over to Armitage, who looked at it a moment. A smile
passed over his face and slowly, deliberately, he tore it into tiny
pieces.

"What are you doing?" cried Mr. Harmon.

"I can't take your money for taking care of her, Mr. Harmon. I should
forever despise myself if I did. It would be bad luck to me."

"Well, what can I do for you? I can't let you go like that!"

Armitage remained silent. Then, turning suddenly, he said:

"There's only one thing I could accept from you, Mr. Harmon."

"What is that?" demanded the railroad magnate eagerly.

"Something that even you, rich as you are, cannot give me. You wouldn't
give it me if you could. Good day, Mr. Harmon."

Armitage went out and, as he passed the astonished financier, he gave a
last lingering look at the oil portrait which filled the space over the
mantel.

CHAPTER XX.

In a cheap, grimy-looking hash-house on Third Avenue Armitage sat alone
at a table, partaking with apparent relish of the rough yet not
unwholesome fare which his slender purse could afford to pay for. The
hour being late, he had exclusively to himself the services of the one
greasy and cadaverous waiter, while the proprietor of the restaurant, if
the "joint" might be dignified by so respectable a name, sat behind his
rostrum near the window, sulkily reckoning up the day's receipts.

Through the open door came all the distressing sounds and smells that
make this particular thoroughfare the noisiest and most objectionable of
the cit