A woman who preceded him like a discouraged shadow showed him the room, but it was to the man in the basement that she told Jan to pay the week’s rent when he said he would take the room.  “Yes; I take the rent—­always,” this man said; and his eyes brightened as Jan pushed the money across the cigar-case at him.  And he wore finger-rings out of all keeping with the dark little place; but he had a pleasant smile for Jan and Jan smiled back at him; for Jan was one of those friendly natures who prefer to be pleasant, even to men whose looks they do not like.

Jan Tingloff slept in his new quarters that night.  He saw nobody connected with the house as he passed out in the morning; but that evening as he entered the front-door he heard a cough.  It was a woman’s cough and dimly he saw a woman’s form—­a rather slender form.  Jan’s senses were the kind which see a thing large at first and then go back for details.  He hurried to close the door so that the cold November wind would not endanger the poor creature further.  As he closed the door she said: 

“Good evening.”

Jan hurried to take off his hat.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

“You go off early mornings, captain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He peered into the twilight of the hall and saw a hand lighting the suspension lamp.  “But I’m not a captain, ma’am.  I was a seafaring man one time; but I am a ship-carpenter now in a repairing job on a big coaster in the dry dock, and I have to be over there early to get my gang started.”

She was turning the wick of the lamp high and then low, and high again, and Jan was vexed to think he had not offered to light the lamp for her in the first place, especially as he now recognized in her the same sad-eyed woman who had showed him his room the evening before.  It was twilight then, too, but she had lit no lamp in the hall or in the room, and Jan guessed why and did not blame her for it.  The furnishings here, as in his room, were shabby.

Jan began to feel a pity for her.  There was that in the curve of her back which caused him to address her with unwonted gentleness—­and ordinarily Jan was gentle enough for anybody’s taste.  Yes, she was the same woman; but if he had met her anywhere else he would not have known her.  She was now all tidied up.  Her clothes were fresh, her shoulders had lost their droop.  Her face was less pale and a glow was coming into her eyes.

Jan’s room was on the second floor and now he ascended the stairs to go there.  At the top of the stairs he glanced back; but catching her looking at him he looked quickly away.  From the darkness of the second-floor hallway, however, he could peer down and she could not see him.  She was still there, standing under the lamp which was now at full blaze.  One arm had been raised high in regulation of the wick and now she raised the other to steady the lamp, which was swinging.  Her figure was in the shadow from the waist down, but her bust, her neck, face and long, slim hands were in full light.