g else about her, too, which
piqued him. He could not make out what it was. Did she look like someone
he knew?

He was polite, as he had promised to be, and called Clo "Miss Riley."
When Beverley said that they were going out for the invalid's first
drive, Roger replied that he was glad; but Clo, catching his eye,
fancied she saw a sarcastic gleam.

"He's thinking of the time I came here in that same car," she told
herself. "I know I must have spoilt it--got it all messed up with blood.
Probably he had to give a lot for doing it over. And my goodness, the
dollars of his that Angel has been pouring out for me every day since!
No wonder he looks sick! But some day I shall pay. I don't know how,
only I shall--I shall!"

Beverley and Clo went down in the gorgeously decorated elevator.

"If Angel lived in a garret, it would be a palace to me," she reflected.

A hall porter opened the door of carved bronze over glass. Without
seeming to look, he took in every detail of the slim figure in white
cloth; the small white hat tilted over the dark red hair, the tiny white
shoes, the dainty ankles in silk stockings. Clo could have laughed
aloud. Of course, the giant in livery knew the whole story. He was
contrasting the way she came out with the way she had come in.

Drawn up at the pavement was the glittering blue automobile, with the
statuesque Robbins at the wheel. Clo remembered both, with a queer, sick
pang. She had not been wholly unconscious when the stretcher was pushed
into the car. "What I owe this darling woman!" was the thought she
breathed like a prayer.

As the two crossed the pavement--tall, beautiful Beverley and quaint
little Clo--a man who must have been loitering close by started toward
them with a limping step, and took off his hat.

"Is this Mrs. Roger Sands?" he asked.

Beverley stopped short, within a yard of her car. For such a graceful,
softly moving person, her movement seemed jerky. Clo glanced from the
man to Mrs. Sands in surprise. One would say the Angel looked
frightened, only that would be absurd! Besides, the man wasn't a
creature worth being afraid of. He was short, and very thin, as if he
had been ill. He hadn't a nice face. Sallow and sickly it was, like a
prison bird, with hollows under the red-rimmed eyes. He was badly lame,
too, if he wasn't pretending; and altogether, in spite of her newly
mended ribs, Clo felt that she herself would be equal to knocking him
down.

"Yes, I am Mrs.