his left temple was white. He had been writing a note, or possibly an
advertisement for work, with a stub of lead-pencil on a scrap of paper
resting on his knee, and now he suddenly raised his eyes--either in an
abstracted search for the right word or because her appearance had
startled him.

Without hesitation she spoke to him.

"Pardon me," she said, impersonally. "May I ask you some questions?"

He looked at her, and the understanding of his situation revealed in
her glance brought the blood to his face. He straightened himself, his
lips parting for a reply, but she gave him no time to speak.

"I am a stranger here," she continued, "and New York is not always
kind to strangers. You seem to be unhappy, too. I wonder if we cannot
help each other."

He smiled with an unyouthful bitterness.

"I'm afraid I'm not much use--to myself or any one else," he answered,
with hard deliberation. Then his face underwent a change as he looked
at hers and read in it, inexperienced as he was, some of the tragic
writing of Fate's inexorable hand. His voice showed his altered mood.

"Of course," he added, quickly, "if there's really anything I can do.
I know the town well enough. Perhaps I can help you if you want to get
anywhere. What is it you would like?"

Her face, under the sudden idea which came to her, could hardly be