was trying to find out about him. He scuffed his broken, too-large shoes against the concrete in embarrassment. His large, innocent eyes, as blue as hers and fringed with their long black lashes, studied her. They would not, he knew, reveal to her his thought. The duplicity and self-confidence he had gained in his combat with charity workers and agents anxious to incarcerate him in institutions assured him of that. If they had not been able to find out from him things he did not want to tell, neither, he was quite confident, could she.
"On Desplaines Street," he prevaricated.
"Will you tell me the number?"
He gave a number, chosen swiftly and at hazard, but it was astutely suited to a neigh borhood in which he might live.
"That is a long way from here," she said thoughtfully. "How is it that I have seen you here so often? Do you come all that distance every day?"
He decided he must distract her from this line of thought. "When I don't work," he answered craftily.
