The two men rose and stood uncomfortably, shifting their hats in their hands—­and avoiding each other’s eyes.  Mr. Aram stood up also, and seeing that his last chance had come, began again to plead desperately.

“What good would fifteen dollars do me?” he said, with a gesture of his hands round the room.  “I don’t have to look for money as hard as that I tell you,” he reiterated, “it wasn’t the money I wanted.  I didn’t mean any harm.  I didn’t know it was wrong.  I just wanted to please my wife—­that was all.  My God, man, can’t you see that you are punishing me out of all proportion?”

The visitors walked towards the door, and he followed them, talking the faster as they drew near to it.  The scene had become an exceedingly painful one, and they were anxious to bring it to a close.

The editor interrupted him.  “We will let you know,” he said, “what we have decided to do by to-morrow morning.”

“You mean,” retorted the man, hopelessly and reproachfully, “that I will read it in the Sunday papers.”

Before the editor could answer they heard the door leading into the apartment open and close, and some one stepping quickly across the hall to the room in which they stood.  The entrance to the room was hung with a portiere, and as the three men paused in silence this portiere was pushed back, and a young lady stood in the doorway, holding the curtains apart with her two hands.  She was smiling, and the smile lighted a face that was inexpressibly bright and honest and true.  Aram’s face had been lowered, but the eyes of the other two men were staring wide open towards the unexpected figure, which seemed to bring a taste of fresh pure air into the feverish atmosphere of the place.  The girl stopped uncertainly when she saw the two strangers, and bowed her head slightly as the mistress of a house might welcome any one whom she found in her drawing-room.  She was entirely above and apart from her surroundings.  It was not only that she was exceedingly pretty, but that everything about her, from her attitude to her cloth walking-dress, was significant of good taste and high breeding.

She paused uncertainly, still smiling, and with her gloved hands holding back the curtains and looking at Aram with eyes filled with a kind confidence.  She was apparently waiting for him to present his friends.

The editor made a sudden but irrevocable resolve.  “If she is only a chance visitor,” he said to himself, “I will still expose him; but if that woman in the doorway is his wife, I will push Bronson under the elevated train, and the secret will die with me.”

What Bronson’s thoughts were he could not know, but he was conscious that his friend had straightened his broad shoulders and was holding his head erect.

Aram raised his face, but he did not look at the woman in the door.  “In a minute, dear,” he said; “I am busy with these gentlemen.”