Stephen's voice rang out clear. "Not say anything more, when--"

Martha dug her fingers into his arm. "Hush!" she whispered hoarsely, her
lips close against his hairy cheek. "She'll be on the floor in a dead
faint in a minute. Didn't I tell you not to mention his name?"

She stepped quickly to the side of her charge, who had walked
falteringly toward the window and now stood peering into the darkness
through the panes of the dormer.

"It's only Stephen's way, child, and you mustn't mind him. He doesn't
mean anything. He hasn't seen much of women, living aboard ship half his
life. It's only his way of trying to be kind. And you see he's known you
from a baby, same as me--and that's why he lets out."

She had folded the pitiful figure in her arms, her hand patting the bent
shoulders. "But we'll get on together, my lamb--you and me. And we'll
have supper right away--And I must ask you, Stephen, to go, now, because
her ladyship is worn out and I'm going to put her to bed."

Carlin picked up his hat and stood fingering the rim, trying to make up
his mind whether he should force the truth upon her then or obey orders
and wait. The training of long years told.

"Well, just as you say, your ladyship, I won't stay if you don't want
me, but don't forget I'm within call, not more than a half-hour away.
All Martha's got to do is to send a postal card and I'm here. I'm sorry
I hurt your feelings. God knows I didn't mean to! Martha knows what
I wanted to tell you. You'll have to come to it sooner or later. Good
night. I hope your ladyship will be rested in the morning. Good night,
Martha. You know you can write when you want me. Good night again, your
ladyship."

He opened the door softly, closed it behind him without a sound, placed
his hat on his head, and, reaching out for the hand-rail, felt his way
in the dark down the rickety stairs and out onto the sidewalk.

Once there, he looked up and down the street as if undecided, turned
sharply, and bent his steps toward Second Avenue, muttering to himself
over and over again as he walked: "I got to find Mr. Felix. I got to
find Mr. Felix."

Chapter XIV

Felix O'Day's runaway wife, despite the many quiet hours spent in
Martha's room, near St. Mark's Place, had not told her old nurse all her
story. She had wept her heart out on the dear woman's shoulder and had
cuddled close in her arms, giving her scraps and bits of her unfortunate
history, with side-lights here a