side-down. A few coins rattled out. He counted them . . . eighty-five cents. The woman opened a drawer of the table. "And here is his." The worn wallet contained a great amount of silver and ninety odd dollars in bills. They had meant to start life again with ninety odd dollars.
"They must have been mad," said McTavish. He touched Philip's shoulder. "Come . . . we'd better go."
Philip rose in silence, and McTavish turned toward the Bible that lay open on the table. "Was that theirs?" he asked.
"No, that's mine. I keep Bibles in all my rooms."
McTavish turned toward the door, and she said, "The bag . . . ain't you going to take the bag?"
McTavish turned toward Philip.
"No," said Philip. "You may keep it."
The woman frowned. "I don't want it. I don't want any of their things left in my house. I've suffered enough. They ruined me. I don't want my house polluted."
McTavish started to speak, and then thought better of it. He simply took up the bag and followed Philip. They went down the two flights of odorous stairs and out of the door. The policeman who had accompanied them was waiting on the sidewalk. As the door closed, they heard the woman sobbing and calling after them that she, an honest, God-fearing woman, had been ruined.
In silence they turned their backs on the dingy house, with the sign, "Rooms to Let to Respectable Parties," and the emblazoned text, "Jesus said, 'Come unto me. . . .'"
