For some time he sat motionless, listening to the
muffled peals of the organ. Then the humiliating
events of the last twenty-four hours began crowding in
upon his memory: the insolent demands of his landlady;
the guarded questions of Kling when he inspected
the dressing-case; the look of doubt on both their
faces and the changes wrought in their manner and
speech when they found he was able to pay his way.
Suddenly something which up to that moment he had
held at bay gripped him.

"It was money, then, which counted," he said to
himself, forgetting for the moment Kitty's refusal to
take it. And if money were so necessary, how long
could he earn it? Kling would soon discover how useless
he was, and then the tin box, emptied of its contents
and the last keepsake pawned or sold, the end
would come.

None of these anxieties had ever assailed him before.
He had been like a man walking in a dream, his gaze
fixed on but one exit, regardless of the dangers besetting
his steps. Now the truth confronted him. He
had reached the limit of his resources. To hope for
much from Kling was idle. Such a situation could
not last, nor could he count for long either on the
friendship or the sympathy of the big-hearted expressman's
wife. She had been absolutely sincere, and so
had her husband, but that made it all the more incumbent