"I was afraid I had offended you or displeased you," she said. "I'm so glad

it isn't so."

Carlotta shivered under her hand.

Things were not going any too well with K. True, he had received his

promotion at the office, and with this present affluence of twenty-two

dollars a week he was able to do several things. Mrs. Rosenfeld now washed

and ironed one day a week at the little house, so that Katie might have

more time to look after Anna. He had increased also the amount of money

that he periodically sent East.

So far, well enough. The thing that rankled and filled him with a sense of


failure was Max Wilson's attitude. It was not unfriendly; it was, indeed,

consistently respectful, almost reverential. But he clearly considered Le

Moyne's position absurd.

There was no true comradeship between the two men; but there was beginning

to be constant association, and lately a certain amount of friction. They

thought differently about almost everything.

Wilson began to bring all his problems to Le Moyne. There were long

consultations in that small upper room. Perhaps more than one man or woman

who did not know of K.'s existence owed his life to him that fall.

Under K.'s direction, Max did marvels. Cases began to come in to him from

the surrounding towns. To his own daring was added a new and remarkable

technique. But Le Moyne, who had found resignation if not content, was

once again in touch with the work he loved. There were times when, having

thrashed a case out together and outlined the next day's work for Max, he

would walk for hours into the night out over the hills, fighting his

battle. The longing was on him to be in the thick of things again. The

thought of the gas office and its deadly round sickened him.

It was on one of his long walks that K. found Tillie.

It was December then, gray and raw, with a wet snow that changed to rain as

it fell. The country roads were ankle-deep with mud, the wayside paths

thick with sodden leaves. The dreariness of the countryside that Saturday

afternoon suited his mood. He had ridden to the end of the street-car

line, and started his walk from there. As was his custom, he wore no

overcoat, but a short sweater under his coat. Somewhere along the road he

had picked up a mongrel dog, and, as if in sheer desire for human society,

it trotted companionably at his heels.

Seven miles from the end of the car line he found a road-house, and stopped

in for a glass of Scotch. He was chilled through. The dog went in with

him, and stood looking up into his face. It was as if he submitted, but

wondered why this indoors, with the scents of the road ahead and the trails

of rabbits over the fields.

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