Kitty looked after the two until they disappeared through the smaller door, then turned and faced Kling.  “I know just what’s happened, Otto—­a baby a month old could see it all.  That man is up against it for the first time.  He’d rather die than beg, and he’ll keep on sellin’ his traps until there’s nothin’ left but the clothes he stands in.  He may be a duke, for all ye know, or maybe only a plain Irish gentleman come to grief.  Them bottles ye showed me last night had arms engraved on ’em, and his initials.  I noticed partic’lar, for I’ve seen them things before.  My father, when he was young, was second groom for a lord and used to tell me about the silver in the house and the arms on the sides of the carriages.  What he’s left home for the dear God only knows; but it will come out, and when it does it won’t be what anybody thinks.  And he’s got a fine way wid him, and a clear look out of his eye, and I’ll bet ye he’s tellin’ the truth and all of it.  Here they come now, and I’m glad they’ve got rid of that rag baby of Bobby’s.”  She turned to her husband.  “And, John, dear, don’t forget that sewing-machine—­oh, yes, I see, you’ve got it in the wagon—­go on wid ye, then!—­ Well, Mr. O’Day, how is it?  Purty small and cramped, ain’t it?  And there’s a chair missin’ that I took downstairs, which I’ll put back.  And there’s a cotton cover belongs to the table.  Won’t suit, will it?” and a shade of disappointment crossed her face.

“The room will answer very well, Mrs. Cleary.  I can see the work of your deft hands in every corner.  I have been living in one much larger, but this is more like a home.  And do I get my breakfast and dinner and the room for the pound—­I mean for the five dollars?”

“You do, and welcome, and somethin’ in the middle of the day if ye happen to be around and hungry.”

“And can I move in to-day?”

“Ye can.”

“Then I will go down and pay what I owe and see about getting my boxes.  And now, here is your money,” and he held out two five-dollar bills.

Kitty stretched her two hands far behind her back, her brown holland over-apron curving inward with the movement.  “I won’t touch it; ye can have the room and ye can keep your money.  When I want it I’ll ask fer it.  Now tell me where I can get your trunks.  Mike will go fer ’em and bring ’em back.”

A new, strange look shone out from the keen, searching eyes of O’Day.  His interest in the woman had deepened.  “And you have no misgivings and are sure you will get your rent?”

“Just as sure as I am that me name is Kitty Cleary, and that is not altogether because you’re an Irishman but because ye are a gentleman.”

This time O’Day made her a little bow, the lines of his face softening, his eyes sparkling with sudden humor at her speech.  He stepped forward, called to the man who was still handling the luggage, and, in the tone of one ordering his groom, said:  “Here, Mike!—­Did you say his name was Mike?—­Go, if you please, to this address, just below Union Square-I will write it on a card—­any time to-day after six o’clock.  I will meet you there and show you the trunks —­there are two of them.”  Then he turned to Otto, still standing by, a silent and absorbed spectator.