"Would you be willing to go back to the Martels' if you knew that this
time next month you'd be in New York with money enough to carry you
through the winter?"
"No. That is--whose money?"
"Your own. I'll go to Queen Vic and put the whole thing up to her so she
can't get around it."
Eleanor brushed the suggestion aside impatiently.
"Don't you suppose I've exhausted every possible argument? And now, when
she finds out what I've done----"
"But you haven't done anything--yet."
"She wouldn't believe me if I told her that I hadn't seen Harold. She
never believes me."
"She'd believe _me_," said Quin, "and what's more she'd listen to me."
Eleanor did not answer; she sat doggedly watching the swinging doors,
through which a draggled throng came and went.
"He'll be here soon," she said half-heartedly--"unless he's gone off for
a week-end somewhere. If he doesn't come soon we can go up to the hotel
and find out whether he left any address. Perhaps you could get me a room
there until to-morrow."
Quin's courage was at its lowest ebb. It was like trying to save a
drowning person who fights desperately against being saved. He heard a
stentorian voice through a megaphone announcing that the eight-thirty
train for the southwest would leave in five minutes on track three, and
he decided to stake his all on a last chance.
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