lar, how are you planning to live? You've let me know your present circumstances; and now you'll not be going to your uncle's."
"No; but there are any number of places for a girl in Chicago."
"You've money?"
"Oh, yes."
"How much?" he demanded unequivocally.
"With me about thirty-five dollars."
"That'll take you to Chicago."
"And more, too. I've my return mileage."
"That's good; now beyond the thirty-five dollars, have you more in a bank?"
"No," she confessed, flushing a little.
"I've about a hundred and twenty dollars," he informed her, putting a hand in a pocket. "Will you take a hundred?"
"No," she said uncomfortably. "Of course not."
"Why not?"
"I can't take money from"—she halted.
"Me? Then there's some one else you prefer to have—"
"No," she denied quickly. "No. I've friends, of course; but I can look out for myself, surely."
"Have you ever supported yourself?"
"No; but—"
"I've always made my living, and besides I'm the one to carry the expenses of our"—he hesitated over describing their compact and then said—"investigations."
"But I don't need money now."
He refrained from overurging and withdrew his hand from his pocket. "You'll let me know, by wire, where you'll stop?"
