Lane heard the door open.

“I wants my room rent.  I can’t get a dollar out of your drunken father.  Will you pay?  It’s four weeks overdue.”

“I have no money.”

“Then get out an’ leave me the room.”  The landlady spoke angrily.

“I’m ill.  I can’t get up.”  The answer was faint.

Lane opened his door quickly, and confronted the broad person of the landlady.

“How much does the woman owe?” he asked, quietly.

“Ah-huh!” the exclamation was trenchant with meaning.  “Twenty dollars, if it’s anything to you.”

“I’ll pay it.  I think I heard the woman say she was ill.”

“She says she is.”

“May I be of any assistance?”

“Ask her.”

Lane glanced into the little room, a counterpart of his.  But it was so dark he could see nothing distinctly.

“May I come in?  Let me raise the blind.  There, the sun is fine this morning.  Now, may I not—–­”

He looked down at a curly head and a sweet pretty face that he knew.

“I know you,” he said, groping among past associations.

“I am Rose Clymer,” she whispered, and a momentary color came into her wan cheeks.

“Rose Clymer!  Bessy Bell’s friend!”

“Yes, Mr. Lane.  I’m not so surprised as you.  I recognized you last night.”

“Then it was you who passed me in the hall?”

“Yes.”

“Well!  And you’re ill?  What is the matter?  Ah!  Last night—­it was your—­your father—­I heard?”

“Yes,” she answered.  “I’ve not been well since—­for a long time, and I gave out last night.”

“Here I am talking when I might be of some use,” said Lane, and he hurried out of the room.  The landlady had discreetly retired to the other end of the hall.  He thrust some money into her hands.

“She seems pretty sick.  Do all you can for her, be kind to her.  I’ll pay.  I’m going for a doctor.”

He telephoned for Doctor Bronson.

An hour later Lane, coming upstairs from his meal, met the physician at Rose’s door.  He looked strangely at Lane and shook his head.

“Daren, how is it I find you here in this place?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” answered Lane, with his old frank smile.

“Humph!” exclaimed the doctor, gruffly.

“How about the girl?” asked Lane.

“She’s in bad shape,” replied Bronson....  “Lane, are you aware of her condition?”

“Why, she’s ill—­that’s all I know,” replied Lane, slowly.  “Rose didn’t tell me what ailed her.  I just found out she was here.”

Doctor Bronson looked at Lane.  “Too bad you didn’t find out sooner.  I’ll call again to-day and see her....  And say, Daren, you look all in yourself.”

“Never mind me, Doctor.  It’s mighty good of you to look after Rose.  I know you’ve more patients than you can take care of.  Rose has nothing and her father’s a poor devil.  But I’ll pay you.”