She looked up at him, surprised, and shook her head; but her velvet eyes grew wide when he told her.

“I won it fairly,” he said.  “And I’m going to stake it all on one last bet.”

[Illustration:  “I won it fairly, and I’m going to stake it all on one last bet.”]

“On—­what?”

“On—­you.  Now, what do you think of that, you funny little thing?”

“How—­do you mean, Mr. Berkley?” He looked down into the eyes of a hurt child.

“It goes into the bank in your name—­if you say so.”

“For—­what?”

“I don’t know,” he said serenely, “but I am betting it will go for rent, and board, and things a girl needs—­when she has no man to ask them of—­and nothing to pay for them.”

“You mean no man—–­excepting—­you?”

“No,” he said wearily, “I’m not trying to buy you.”

She crimsoned.  “I thought—­then why do you——­”

“Why?  Good God, child! I don’t know!  How do I know why I do anything?  I’ve enough left for my journey.  Take this and try to behave yourself if you can—­in the Canterbury and out of it! . . .  And buy a new lock for that door of yours.  Good night.”

She sprang up and laid a detaining hand on his sleeve as he reached the hallway.

“Mr. Berkley!  I—­I can’t——­”

He said, smiling:  “My manners are really better than that——­”

“I didn’t mean——­”

“You ought to.  Don’t let any man take his leave in such a manner.  Men believe a woman to be what she thinks she is.  Think well of yourself.  And go to bed.  I never saw such a sleepy youngster in my life!  Good night, you funny, sleepy little thing.”

“Mr. Berkley—­I can’t take—­accept——­”

“Oh, listen to her!” he said, disgusted.  “Can’t I make a bet with my own money if I want to?  I am betting; and you are holding the stakes.  It depends on how you use them whether I win or lose.”

“I don’t understand—­I don’t, truly,” she stammered; “d-do you wish me to—­leave—­the Canterbury?  Do you—­what is it you wish?”

“You know better than I do.  I’m not advising you.  Where is your home?  Why don’t you go there?  You have one somewhere, I suppose, haven’t you?”

“Y-yes; I had.”

“Well—­where is it?”

“In Philadelphia.”

“Couldn’t you stand it?” he inquired with a sneer.

“No.”  She covered her face with her hands.

“Trouble?”

“Y-yes.”

“Man?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“Won’t they take you back?”

“I—­haven’t written.”

“Write.  Home is no stupider than the Canterbury.  Will you write?”

She nodded, hiding her face.

“Then—­that’s settled.  Meanwhile—­” he took both her wrists and drew away her clinging hands: 

“I’d rather like to win this bet because—­the odds are all against me.”  He smiled, letting her hands swing back and hang inert at her sides.