ARTHUR ran up the steps of Mrs. Hart’s house, and, opening the door with his latch-key, entered the parlor. The gas was burning at full head. Hetzel was stretched at length in an easy-chair, his hands thrust deep into his trowsers-pockets. At sight of Arthur, he rose and advanced on tip-toe to meet him.

“Hush-sh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips. He pointed to the sofa, upon which Mrs. Hart lay, asleep. Then he took Arthur’s arm, and led him through the hall into the back room. There they seated themselves.

“I didn’t expect to find you up,” said Arthur.

“We haven’t been abed,” said Hetzel.

“I suppose nothing new has happened? You haven’t heard from her again?”

“No.”

They remained silent for some time.

Hetzel began, “After you left in that abrupt way, Mrs. Hart, who had borne up wonderfully, quite went to pieces. She has been in a half hysterical condition all night. I persuaded her to lie down about an hour ago, and now she’s asleep.”

Arthur vouchsafed no comment.

“We have had a lot of reporters pestering us, too,” Hetzel went on. “Of course I refused to see them, one and all.”

At this Arthur started.

“Then I suppose the whole thing is in the papers, curse them!” he cried.

“I am afraid so.”

“Haven’t you looked to see?”

“It isn’t time yet. The papers haven’t been delivered yet.”

Arthur pulled out his watch.

“Not going—run down,” he said; “but of course it’s time. It must be seven o’clock.”

“Oh, I didn’t know it was so late. I’ll go see.” Hetzel went away. Presently he returned, saying, “Surely enough, here they are.”

“Well?” queried Arthur.

Hetzel undid the newspapers, and commenced to look them over.

“Yes, it’s all here—a column of it—on the front page,” he groaned.

“Let me see,” said Arthur, extending his hand.

But the head-lines were as much as he had the heart to read. He threw the sheet angrily to the floor and began to stride back and forth across the room.

“Sit down,” said Hetzel, “or you’ll wake Mrs. Hart.”

“Oh, to be sure,” assented Arthur; and did as he was bidden.

By and by, “Do you know at what hours visitors are admitted?” Hetzel asked.

“I—I think between ten and four.”

“Well, then, we’ll want a carriage here at halfpast nine. I’ll send out now to order one.”

For a second time Hetzel left the room. When he got back, he said that he had dispatched a servant to the nearest livery stable.

At this juncture Mrs. Hart appeared, very old and gray and pallid. She came in without speaking, and took a chair near the window.

“I hope your nap has refreshed you,” Hetzel ventured.

“Oh, yes,” she replied dismally, “I suppose it has.—Where have you been, Arthur?”

“Nowhere—only out of doors.”

All three held their peace.

Presently the servant returned from her errand, and told Hetzel that the carriage would be on hand at the proper time.

“Bridget,” said Mrs. Hart, “you’d better brew some coffee, and serve it up here.”

When Bridget had gone, “You have sent for a carriage? At what hour are we to start?” Mrs. Hart inquired.

“At half-past nine.”

“Then, if you will excuse me, I’ll go up-stairs and get ready.”

“Certainly,” said Hetzel. “And while you’re about it, you’d better put a few things together to take to her, don’t you think?”

“Why, she won’t need them. She’ll be with us again to-day, will she not?”

“You know, Mr. Flint can’t see Mr. Orson till this evening. So, it seems to me——-”

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs. Hart, gulping down a sob, and left the room.

During her absence, Bridget brought in the coffee.

“Take a cup up to your mistress,” said Hetzel.

Then he poured out a cup for Arthur. He had to use some persuasion to induce him to drink it; but eventually he prevailed. Having swallowed a portion for himself, he lighted a cigarette.

“Better try one,” he said, with a woful attempt at cheerfulness, offering the bunch to Arthur. “There’s nothing like tobacco to brace a man up.”

But Arthur declined.

Half-past nine was leisurely in arriving. At last, however, they heard the grinding of carriage-wheels upon the pavement outside.

They climbed into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip. Off they drove.

That drive was a purgatory. At its start their hearts were oppressed by a nameless terror. It had intensified into a breathless agony, before their drive was over. Their foreheads were wet with cold perspiration. Their lips were ashen. As they turned from Broadway into Leonard Street, and knew that they were nearing their journey’s end, each of them instinctively winced, and gasped, and shuddered. When the carriage finally drew up before the prison entrance, not one of them dared to speak or to stir.

At last Hetzel said, “Well, here we are.”

No answer.

After an interval, he went on, “Mrs. Hart, you, of course, will go in first. You must explain to her about Arthur, and induce her to see him. You can send word, or come back, when she’s ready to.”

With this, he opened the carriage door, dismounted, and helped Mrs. Hart to follow. Arthur remained behind. He closed his eyes for a little, and held his hands to his forehead. His hands were cold and damp. His forehead was now dry and hot; and he could count the pulsations of the arteries in his temples. His throat ached with a great lump. He mechanically watched the people pass on the sidewalk, and wondered whether any of them were as miserably unhappy as he. The myriad noises of the street smote his ears with a strange sharpness, and caused him from time to time to start and turn even paler than he had been. Gradually, however, he began to lose consciousness of outward things, and to think, think, think. He had plenty to think about. Pretty soon, he was fathoms deep in a brown study.

He was aroused by the reappearance of Hetzel and Mrs. Hart. They got into the carriage. The carriage moved.

“What—what is the trouble now?” Arthur asked.

“Damn them for a set of insolent scoundrels!”

Hetzel blurted out, forgetful of Mrs. Hart’s sex. “They wouldn’t let us in.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, they insist on a tangle of red-tape—say we must have passes, and so forth, from the district-attorney.”

“Well?”

“Well, we’re on our way to procure them now.” But at the district-attorney’s office there was fresh delay. The clerk whose duty it was to make out the passes, had not yet reached his post; and none of his colleagues seemed anxious to play the lieutenant’s part.

Hetzel lost his temper.

“Come, what are you lazy louts paid for, I’d like to know?” he thundered. “Where’s your master? Where’s Mr. Romer? I’ll see whether you’re to sit around here in your shirt-sleeves, grinning, or not. I want some one of you to wait on me, or I’ll make it hot for the whole pack.”

He got his passes.

They drove back to the Tombs. This time Mrs. Hart encountered no obstacles to her entrance.

Hetzel rejoined Arthur in the carriage. A quarter-hour elapsed before either spoke.

Arthur said, “She—she’s staying a long while.”

“Oh,” responded Hetzel, “they’ve got such a lot to talk about, you know.”

At the end of another quarter-hour, more or less, Arthur complained, “What under heaven can be keeping her so long?”

“Be patient,” said Hetzel. “It’ll do no good to fret.”

By and by Arthur started up. “By Jove, I can’t wait any longer. I can’t endure this waiting. I must go in myself,” he cried.

But just at this moment Mrs. Hart issued forth.

Hetzel ran to meet her.

She was paler than ever. Her eyelids were red.

“We may as well drive home,” she said. “She won’t see him.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?” asked Hetzel.

“I’ll tell you all about it, as we drive along.”

“But how—how shall we break the news to him?”

“You—you’d better speak to him now, before I get in.”

Hetzel approached the carriage window.

“Arthur,” he began, awkwardly, “try—try to keep quiet, and not—the—the fact is—”

“Is she ill? Is she dead?” cried Arthur, with mad alarm.

“No, no, my dear boy; of course not. Only—only—just now—she—”

“She refuses to see me?”

“Well—”

“I was fully prepared for that. I knew she would.”

His head sank upon his breast.

They had covered half the distance between the Tombs and Beekman Place, when at length Arthur said, “Please, Mrs. Hart, please tell me about your visit.”

Mrs. Hart shot a glance at Hetzel, as much as to ask, “Shall I?” He nodded affirmatively.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she began. “They led me down a lot of stone corridors, and through a yard, and up a flight of stairs, and across a long gallery, past numberless little, black, iron doors; and at last we stopped before one of the doors, and the woman who was with me called out,’.eixada, alias Ripley’—only think of the indignity!—and after she had called it out that way two or three times, a little panel in the door flew open, and there—there was Ruth’s face—so pale, so sad, and her eyes so large and awful—it made my heart sink. I supposed of course they were going to let me in; but no, they wouldn’t. The prison woman said I must stand there, and say what I had to say to the prisoner in her presence.”

Mrs. Hart paused, and swallowed a sob.

“Well, I stood there, so frightened at the sight of Ruth’s face, that I didn’t know what to do; till by and by she said, very softly, ’Aren’t you going to kiss me, dear?’ Oh, her voice was so sweet and sad, I couldn’t help it, but I burst out crying; and she cried, too; and she put her face up close to the open place in the door; and then we kissed each other; and then—then we just cried and cried, and couldn’t speak a word.”

The memory of her former tears brought fresh tears to Mrs. Hart’s eyes. Drying them, she went on, “We were crying like that, and never thinking of any thing else, when the prison woman said, ’If you have any communication to make to the prisoner, you’d better make it right off, because you can’t stay here all day, you know.’ Then I began about Arthur. I said, ’Ruth, I wanted to tell you that Arthur is down outside, and that he wishes to see you.’ Oh, if you could have seen the look that came upon her face! It made me tremble. I thought she was going to faint, or something. But no. She said, very calmly, ’It would do no good for me to see Arthur. It would only pain him and myself. I do not wish to see him. I could not bear to see him. That is what she said.”

“Go on, go on,” groaned Arthur, as Mrs. Hart paused.

“She said she didn’t want to see you, and couldn’t bear to. I said, ’But, Ruth, you ought to see him. You and he ought to speak together, and try to understand each other.’ She said, ’There is no misunderstanding between us. I understand every thing.’—’Oh, no,’ said I, ’no, you don’t. There is something which he wants to explain to you—about how he came to be associated with Mr. Peix-ada.’—’I don’t care about that,’ said she. ’There are some things which he can not explain. I am miserable enough already. I need all my strength. I should break down, if I were to see him.’—But I said, ’Consider, him, Ruth. You can’t imagine how unhappy he is. He loves you so much. It is breaking his heart.’—’Loves me?’ she said. ’Does he still pretend to love me? Oh, no, he does not love me. He never loved me. If he had loved me, he would never have done what he did. Oh, no, no—I can not see him, I will not see him. You may tell him that I said it would do no good for us to see each other. Every thing is over and past between him and me.’ She had said all this very calmly. But then suddenly she began to cry again: and she was crying and sobbing as if her heart would break, and she couldn’t speak a word, and all I could do was to try and soothe her a little, when the prison woman said I must come away. I tried to get her to let me stay—offered her money—but she said, ’No. It is dinner time now. No visitors are allowed in the building at dinner time. You must go.’—So, I had to leave Ruth alone.”

“It is as I supposed,” moaned Arthur. “She hates me. All is over and past between us, she said.”

“Nonsense, man,” protested Hetzel. “It is merely a question of time. Mrs. Hart simply didn’t have time enough. If she had been allowed to stay a half hour longer, your wife would have loved you as much as ever. She does love you as much as ever, now. But her heart is crushed and sore, and all she feels is the pain. It’s less than twenty-four hours since the whole thing happened; she hasn’t had time enough yet to think it over. We’re going to have her home again to-morrow; and if between the three of us we can’t undeceive her respecting your relations to Peixada—bring her to hear and comprehend the truth—I’ll be mightily surprised.”

They drove for some blocks in silence.

“Did you give her her things, Mrs. Hart?” Arthur asked, abruptly.

“No,” said Mrs. Hart; “they wouldn’t let me. I forgot to tell you that they made me empty my pockets before they led me to her. The prison woman took the things, and said she would examine them, and then give her such as were not against rules.”

“And—and it was a regular prison cell in which she was confined?”

“Oh, yes; it was horrible. The walls were whitewashed, and there was only one little bit of a grated window, and the floor was of stone, and the bed was a narrow iron cot, and she had just a wretched, old, wooden stool to sit on, and the air was something frightful.”

“Did you tell her of our efforts to get bail for her?” asked Hetzel.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it.”

“Perhaps you’d better write her a note, when we get home. I’ll send a messenger with it.”

“All right, I will,” acquiesced Mrs. Hart.

But in Beekman Place she said to Hetzel: “About that note you spoke of—I don’t feel that I can trust myself to write. I’m afraid I should say something that—that might—I mean I think I couldn’t write to her. I should break down, if I tried. Won’t you do it, instead?”

“One word from you would comfort her more than a dozen from me.”

“But—it is such hard work for me to keep control of myself, as it is—and if I should undertake to write—I—I—”

“Oh, very well,” said Hetzel. “Can you let me have pen and paper?”

What he wrote ran thus:—

“My dear Mrs. Ripley: I only want to send you this line or two, to tell you that your friends are hard at work in your behalf, and that before this time to-morrow we mean to have you safe and sound at home. Meanwhile, for Arthur s sake, try to bear up and be of good cheer. The poor boy is breaking his heart about you. All I can do for him is to promise that in a few hours, now, he shall hold you in his arms again. I should like to make clear to you in this note how it was that he seemed to have had a share in the trickery by which you were betrayed; but I am afraid I might make a bungle of it; and after all, it is best that you should hear the tale from his own lips, as you surely will to-morrow morning. I beg and pray that you will strive hard not to let this thing have any grave effect upon your health. That is what I most dread. Of other consequences I have no fear—and you need have none. If you will only exert your strength to bear it a little while longer, and come home to us to-morrow sound and well in health, why, we shall all live to forget that this break in our happiness ever occurred. I think I feel the full pain of your position. I know that it is of a sort to unnerve the staunchest of us. But I know too that you have uncommon powers at your command; and I beg of you, for your own sake, for Arthur’s, for Mrs. Hart’s, to call upon them now. Weather the storm for one more night, and then I vouch for the coming blue skies.

“God bless you and be with you!

“Julian Hetzel.”

“I want to add a postscript,” said Arthur, when Hetzel laid down his pen.

“Do you think you’d better?” asked Hetzel, dubiously.

“Let me have it, will you?” cried Arthur, savagely; and held out his hand for the paper.

Hetzel gave it to him. On the blank space that was left he wrote: “Ruth—my darling—for God’s sake, overcome your anger against me. Don’t judge me before you have heard my defense. Be merciful, Ruth, and wait till you have let me speak and justify myself, before taking for granted that I have been guilty of treachery toward you. Oh, Ruth, how can you condemn me on mere appearances?—me, your husband. Oh, please, Ruth, please write me an answer, saying that you have got over the anger you felt for me yesterday and this morning, and that you will suspend judgment of me till I have had a chance to clear myself. I can not write my explanation here, now. I am not calm enough, and it is too long a story. Oh, Ruth, I shall go mad, unless you will promise to wait about condemning me. Write me an answer at once, and send it by the messenger who brings you this. I can not say any thing else except that I love you. Oh, you will kill me, if you go on believing what you told Mrs. Hart—that I do not love you. You must believe that I love you—you know I love you. Say in your answer that you know I love you. I love you as I never loved you—more than I ever loved you before. Oh, little Ruth, please cheer up, and don’t be unhappy. If this thing should result seriously for your health, I—I shall die. Dear little Ruth, just try to keep up until to-morrow morning. If you will only come home all right to-morrow morning, then our sufferings will not count. Ruth!”

Hetzel said, “I’ll run out to the corner, and find some one to carry this to her.”

He went off. Mrs. Hart and Arthur sat silent and motionless in the parlor. In due time Hetzel got back. He too took a seat and kept his peace. So the afternoon wore away. No one spoke. Their minds were busy enough, God knows; but busy with thoughts which they dared not shape in speech. The clock on the mantel-piece ticked with painful distinctness. Street-sounds penetrated the closed windows—children’s voices, at their games—the cries of fruit venders—hand-organ music—the noise of wheels on paving stones—and reminded the listeners that the life of the city was going on very much as usual. Now and then a steam-whistle shrieked on the river. Now and then one of our tongue-tied trio drew a deep, audible sigh. Ruth’s piano, in the corner, was open. On the rack lay a sheet of music, and with it a tiny white silk handkerchief that she had doubtless thrown down carelessly, and left there, the day before. When Arthur perceived this, he got up, crossed the floor, took possession of it, and tucked it into his pocket.

Towards six o’clock the door-bell rang. All three started violently. The same notion occurred to all three at once.

“It—it is from her. It is her answer,” gasped Arthur, and began to breathe quickly.

Hetzel went to the door. After what seemed an eternity to those he had left behind, he returned.

“No,” he said, replying to their glances; “not yet. It is only your office-boy, Arthur. He has brought you your day’s mail.”

Arthur apathetically commenced to look over the envelopes. At last he came to one which he appeared on the point of opening. But then abruptly he seemed to change his mind, and tossed it to Hetzel.

“Read that, will you, and tell me what he says,” was his request.

Hetzel read the following:—

“Office of

“B. Peixada & Co.,

“No.—Reade Street,

“New York, Aug. 12, 1884.

“Dear Sir:—In view of the extraordinary occurrence of yesterday morning, I presume it is needless for me to say that your further services as my attorney can be dispensed with. Please have the goodness to transfer my brother’s will and all other papers in your keeping, in reference to the case of my late sister-in-law, to Edwin Offenbach, Esq., attorney, No.—Broadway. I don’t know if you expect me to pay you any more money; but if you do, please send memorandum to above address, and oblige,

“Respectfully Yours,

“B. Peixada.

“A. Ripley, Esq., attorney, etc.”

“He wants you to transfer his papers to another lawyer and render your bill, that’s all,” said Hetzel.

“Oh, is that all?” Arthur rejoined. “Well, then, let me have his note.”

Arthur put Peixada’s note into his pocket. The trio relapsed into their former silence.

Again by and by the door-bell rang. Again all three started. Again Hetzel went to the door.

Arthur leaned forward, and strained his ears. He heard Hetzel take down the chain; he heard the door creak open; he heard a boy’s voice, rough and lusty, say, “No answer. Here, sign—will you?” And then he sank back in his chair.

Hetzel staid away for some minutes. Coming back, “It was the messenger,” he said; “but he had no answer. The prison people told him that there was none.”

It was now about seven o’clock. Presently Bridget appeared upon the threshold, and asked to speak with her mistress. Mrs. Hart stepped into the hall, where for a time she and the servant conversed in low tones. Re-entering the parlor, she said, “Dinner.—She came to tell me that dinner is ready. I had forgotten it. Will you come down?”

Hetzel rose. Arthur remained seated.

“Come, Arthur. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Hart said? Dinner is ready,” Hetzel began.

“Oh, you don’t suppose I want any dinner, do you? You two go down, if you choose. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Now, be sensible, will you? Come down-stairs with us. Whether you want to, or not, you must eat something. You’ll get sick, fasting like this. We’ve got enough on our hands, as it is, without having a sick man to look after. Come along.”

Hetzel took Arthur by the arm, and led him out.

But their attempt at dinner was pretty doleful. Despite their long abstinence from food, none of them was hungry. Hetzel alone contrived to finish his soup. Mrs. Hart and Arthur could swallow no more than a few mouthfuls of bread and wine apiece.

Afterward they went back to the parlor. As before, Arthur sat still and nursed his thoughts. Hetzel picked up an illustrated book from the table, and began to turn the pages. Mrs. Hart said, “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a little. I have a splitting headache.” She lay down on the sofa. Hetzel got a shawl, and covered her with it.

The clock was striking ten, when for a third time the bell rang. For a third time Hetzel started to answer it. Arthur accompanied him.

Hetzel opened the door. A telegraph-boy confronted him.

“Ripley?” the boy demanded.

“Yes—yes,” said Arthur, and seized hold of the dispatch that the boy offered.

But his courage forsook him. He turned white, and leaned against the wall for support.

“Some—something has happened to her,” he gasped. “Read it for me, Hetz, and let me know the worst.”

“No, it isn’t from her. It’s from Mr. Flint,” said Hetzel, after he had read it.

“Oh,” sighed Arthur.—“Well, what does he say?”

“Here.”

Hetzel put the telegram into Arthur’s hands. Its contents were:—

“Victory! Meet me to-morrow morning, 10:30, at district-attorney’s office. Every thing satisfactorily arranged. Absolutely nothing to fear.—Arthur Flint.”

“There,” Hetzel added, “now I hope you’ll brace up a little.”

“I suppose I ought to,” said Arthur. “Anyhow, I’ll try.”

Mrs. Hart was much relieved. Indeed, her spirits underwent a considerable reaction. Her eyes brightened, and she cried, “Oh, to think! The dear child will be home again by luncheon-time to-morrow!”

“And now,” put in Hetzel, “I would counsel both you and Arthur to go to bed. A night’s rest will work wonders for you.”

“Yes, I think so, too,” agreed Mrs. Hart. “But you—you will not leave us? You will sleep in our spare room?”

“Oh, thank you. Yes, perhaps I’d better stay here, so as to be on hand in case any thing should happen.”

All three climbed the staircase. Mrs. Hart showed Hetzel to his quarters, and inspected them to satisfy herself that every thing was in proper order for his comfort. Then he escorted her back to her own bed-chamber. Arthur was standing in the hall. Mrs. Hart bade them both good night, and disappeared. Thereupon Hetzel, turning to Arthur, said, “Now, old boy, go straight to bed, and refresh yourself with a sound sleep. Good-by till morning.”

But Arthur stopped him. In a voice that betrayed some embarrassment, he began, “I say, Julian, I wonder whether you would very much mind my sleeping with you. You see, I—I haven’t been in there”—pointing to a door in front of them—“since—since—” He broke off.

“Oh, of course. You don’t feel like being left alone. I understand. Come on,” said Hetzel.

“Thanks,” said Arthur. “Yes, that’s it. I don’t feel like being left alone.”

The sky was overcast next morning, and a cold wind blew from across the river. Hetzel and Mrs. Hart were up betimes; but Arthur, who had tossed restlessly about for the earlier half of the night, lay abed till late. He did not show his face downstairs till nine o’clock.

“We want to start in about half an hour, Arthur,” said Hetzel. “That will give us time to stop at your office, before going to the district-attorney’s.”

“What do we want to stop at my office for?”

“Why, to attend to the matters that Peixada wrote you about—return the will—and so forth.”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten.”

“Then, I suppose, Mrs. Hart, that we shall be back here for luncheon, and bring Ruth with us. But if we shouldn’t turn up till somewhat later, you mustn’t alarm yourself. There’s no telling how long the legal formalities may take.”

“You speak as though you were going to leave me behind,” said Mrs. Hart.

“Why, I didn’t think you would want to go with us. The weather is so threatening, and the district-attorney’s office is so unpleasant a place, I took for granted that you would prefer to stay home.”

“Oh, no. I should go wild, waiting here alone. You must let me accompany you. I want to be the first—no, the second—to greet Ruth.”

Hetzel made no further opposition.

They went straight to Arthur’s office. There he did the Peixada documents up in a bundle, directed the same to Mr. Edwin Offenbach, and told his office boy to deliver it to Mr. Offenbach in person. Then they proceeded on foot up Broadway and down Chambers Street to the district-attorney’s.

The identical lot of supercilious clerks with whom Hetzel had had it out the day before, were lolling about now in the ante-room. “We wish to see Mr. Romer,” Hetzel announced.

Nobody seemed to be much impressed by this piece of intelligence.

“Come, you fellow,” Hetzel went on, addressing one young gentleman in particular, who appeared to have no more weighty duty to perform than the trimming of his finger-nails; “just take that card into Mr. Romer—will you?—and look sharp about it.”

The young gentleman glanced up languidly, surveyed his interlocutor with a mingling of pity and amusement, at length drawled, “Say, Jim, see what this party’s after,” and returned to his toilet.

Hetzel’s brow contracted.

“What do you want to see Mr. Romer about?” demanded Jim, leisurely lifting himself from the desk atop which he had been seated.

Hetzel’s brows contracted a trifle more closely. There was an ugly look in his eyes.

“What do I want to see Mr. Romer about?” he repeated. “I’ll explain that to Mr. Romer. What I want you to do is to conduct us to Mr. Romer’s office; and I want you to do that at short notice, or, I promise you, I’ll find out the reason why.”

Hetzel had spoken quietly, but with an inflection that was unmistakable.

“Well, step this way, then, will you?” said Jim, the least bit crestfallen.

They followed him into Mr. Romer’s private room.

Romer was seated at his desk. Mr. Flint was seated hard-by at a table, examining some papers. Both rose at the entrance of the visitors.

“Ah, Arthur, my dear boy,” Mr. Flint exclaimed, “here you are.” He clapped his godson heartily upon the shoulder, and proceeded to pay his compliments to Mrs. Hart and Hetzel.

“How do, Ripley?” said Romer. “Glad to see you.”

Thereupon befell a moment of silence. Nobody seemed to know what to say next.

Finally Mr. Flint began. “I think,” he said, “I ought to tell you that Mr. Romer is to be thanked for all the good luck that we have met with. Except for his intercession, Mr. Orson would not have considered the bail question for a moment. As it is, Mr. Romer has persuaded him—But perhaps you’d better go on,” he added, abruptly turning to Romer.

“Well,” said Romer, “the long and short of it is that Mr. Orson agrees to accept bail in twenty-five thousand dollars. You know, Ripley, it’s our rule not to take bail at all in cases of this sort; and so he had to fix a large amount to ward off scandal.”

“And here are the papers, all ready to be signed,” said Mr. Flint.

“But where——” Hetzel began.

“Yes, just so. I was coming to that,” Romer interposed. “We’ve sent for her, and she’ll get here before long. But what I was going to say is this: Mr. Orson makes it a condition that before bail is accepted, she be required to—to plead.”

“Well?” queried Hetzel.

“Well, you see, she must put in her plea of not guilty in—in open court.”

“What!” cried Arthur. “Subject her to that humiliation? Drag her up to the bar of a crowded court-room, and—and—Oh, it will kill her! You might as well kill her outright.”

“Is this absolutely necessary?” asked Hetzel.

“Mr. Orson made it a sine qua non,” replied Romer; “and if you’ll listen to me for a moment, I’ll tell you why.”

He paused, gnawed his mustache for an instant, at length resumed, “You know, Ripley, we never should have gone at this case, at all, except for you. That’s so, isn’t it? All right. Now, what I want to make plain is that we’re, not to blame. You started us, didn’t you? Well and good. We unearthed that old indictment, which otherwise might have lain moldering in its pigeon-hole till the day of doom, we unearthed it simply because you urged us to. We never should have moved in the matter, except for you. I want you to confess that this is a true statement of the facts.”

“Oh, yes; it’s true,” groaned Arthur.

“All right, Ripley. That’s just what I wanted to bring out. Now I can pass on to point two. Point two is this. I suppose you’re very sorry for what’s happened. I know we are—at least, I am—awfully sorry. And what’s more, I feel—I feel—hang it, I feel uncommonly friendly toward you, Ripley, old boy. Don’t you understand? I want to do all I can to get you out of this confounded mess. And so, what I went to work to do with Mr. Orson was not only to induce him to take bail, but also, don’t you see, to get him to drop the case. What I urged upon him was this. I said, ’Look here, Mr. Orson, we didn’t start this business, did we? Then why the deuce should we press it? The chances of conviction aren’t great, and anyhow we’ve got our hands full enough, without raking up worm-eaten indictments. I say, as long as she has turned out to be who she is, I say, let’s leave matters in statu quo.’ That’s what I said to Mr. Orson.”

“By Jove, Romer, you—you’re a brick,” was the most Arthur could respond. There was a frog in his voice.

“Well, sir,” Romer continued, “I put it before Mr. Orson in that shape, and I argued with him a long time about it. But what struck him was this. ’What’ll the public say?’ he asked. ’Now it’s got into the papers, there’ll be the dickens to pay, if we don’t push it.’ And you can’t deny, Ripley, that that’s a pretty serious difficulty. Well, he and I, we talked it over, and considered the pros and cons, and the upshot of it was that he said, ’All right, Romer. I have no desire to carry the matter further than is necessary to set us right before the public. So, what I’ll consent to do is to have bail fixed in a large sum—say twenty-five thousand dollars—and then she must plead in open court. That’ll satisfy the reporters. Then we’ll put the indictment back into the safe, and let it lie. As long as we’re solid with the public, I don’t care.’ That’s what Mr. Orson said. So now, you see, she’s got to plead in open court, to prevent the newspapers from raising Cain with us, and the bail’s got to be pretty considerable for the same reason. But after that’s settled, you can take her home, and rest easy. As long as we’re in office the charge won’t be revived; and by the time we’re superseded, it will be an old story and forgotten by all hands.”

“You see,” Mr. Flint said, “how much we have to thank Mr. Romer for.”

“And I hope Mr. Romer will believe that we appreciate his kindness,” added Hetzel.

“I—I—God bless you, Romer,” blurted out Arthur.

“Well,” said Romer, “to come down to particulars, we’ve got a crowded calendar to-day, and so the court room is likely to be full of people. I wanted to make this pleading business as easy as possible for her, and on that account I’ve sent an officer after her already. Just as soon as the judge arrives, she can put in her plea. Then we’ll all come back here, and have the papers signed; and then you can go home and be happy. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll take you into the court room by the side entrance.”

“Oh, we—I don’t want to go into the court room. I couldn’t stand it. Let us wait here till it’s over,” whimpered Arthur, through chattering teeth.

Romer looked surprised. “Just as you please,” said he; “but prisoners generally like to see a friendly face near them, when they’re called up to plead.”

“Ripley doesn’t know what he’s saying,” put in Hetzel. “Of course we will follow you into court.” In a lower tone, turning to Arthur, “You don’t mean that you want her to go through that ordeal alone, do you?” he demanded.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Arthur confessed.

“But—but,” asked Mrs. Hart, “can’t we see her and speak to her before she has to appear in court?”

“I don’t think that could be managed,” replied Romer, “without some delay. You know, I want to have her plead the moment she gets here, so as to avoid the crush. It’ll only take a few minutes. You’d better come now.”

They followed Romer out of his office, down a long, gloomy corridor, along which knots of people stood, chatting and smoking rank cigars, and into the General Sessions court room—the court room that Arthur had visited a few months before, out of idle curiosity to witness the scene of Mrs. Peixada’s trial.

There were already about forty persons present: a half dozen lawyers at the counsel-table, busy with books and papers; a larger number of respectable looking citizens, who read newspapers and appeared bored—probably gentlemen of the jury; and a residue of damp, dirty, dismal individuals, including a few tattered women, who were doubtless, like those with whom we are chiefly concerned, come to watch the fate of some unfortunate friend. Every body kept very still, so that the big clock on the wall made itself distinctly heard even to the farthest corner of the room. Its hands marked five minutes to eleven. The suspense was painful. It seemed to Arthur that he had grown a year older in the interval that elapsed before the clock solemnly tolled the hour.

Romer had chairs placed for them within the bar, a little to the right of the clerk’s desk, so that they would not be more than six feet distant from the prisoner, when she stood up to speak. Then he left them, saying, “I’ll see whether the judge has got down. I want to ask him to go on the bench promptly, as a favor to me.”

Soon afterward a loud rapping sounded upon the door that led from the corridor, and the officers who were scattered about the room, simultaneously called, “Hats off.”

The judge, with grave and rather self-conscious mien, stalked past our friends, and took his position on the bench. Romer followed at a few paces. He smiled at Arthur, and crossed over to the district-attorney’s table.

There was a breathing space of silence. Then the crier rose, and sang out his time-honored admonition, “Hear ye, hear ye, hear ye, all persons having business with this court,” etc., to the end.

Another moment of silence.

The clerk untied a bundle of papers, ran them over, got upon his feet, and exchanged a few whispered words with the judge. Eventually he turned around and faced the audience.

Ah, how still Arthur’s heart stood, as the clerk cried, in rasping, metallic accents, “Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley, to the bar!”

There were by this time quite seventy-five spectators present. Every one of them leaned forward on his chair, and craned his neck eagerly, to catch a good glimpse of the prisoner. In the distance, somewhere, resounded a harsh click (as of a key turned in a stiff lock), succeeded by a violent clang (as of an iron door opened and slammed to, in haste). Then, up the aisle leading from the rear of the court room, advanced the figure of a lady, dressed in black. She had to run the gauntlet of those seventy-five on-lookers, more than one of whom was bold enough to obtrude himself upon her path, and stare her squarely in the face. She had no veil.

But she marched bravely on, looking fixedly ahead, and at last reached the railing where she had to halt. She was terribly pale. Her features were hard and peaked. Her under-lip was pressed tight beneath her teeth. Her face might have been of marble. It contrasted sharply with the black hair above it, and the black gown underneath. Her eyes were empty of expression, like those of one who is blind. She appeared not to see her friends: at any rate, she gave them no sign of recognition. Yet they were only a few feet away, and almost exactly in front of her. She stood motionless, with both hands resting on the rail.

What must have been Arthur Ripley’s feelings at this moment, as he beheld his wife, standing within arm’s reach of him, a prisoner in a court of law, prey to a hundred devouring eyes, and recognized his utter helplessness to interfere and shield her!

“Judith Peixada, alias Ruth Ripley,” began the clerk, in the same mechanical, metallic voice, “you have been indicted for murder in the first degree upon the person of Edward Bolen, late of the first ward of the City of New York, deceased, and against the peace of the People of the State of New York, and their dignity. How say you, are you guilty or not guilty of the felony as stated?”

The prisoner’s hands clutched tightly at the railing. She drew a deep breath. Her pale lips parted. So low that only those within a radius of a yard or two could hear, she said, “I am guilty.”

The clerk assumed that he had misunderstood. “Come, speak up louder,” he said, roughly. “How do you plead?”

A spasm contracted the prisoner’s features, She bit her lip. Her hands shook violently. She repeated, “I plead guilty.”

The clerk’s face betrayed a small measure of surprise. Speedily controlling it, however, he began to recite the formula, for such case, made and provided: “You answer that you are guilty of the felony as charged in the indictment, and so your plea shall stand record—”

“One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge at this point interrupted.

Mr. Flint and Hetzel were looking into each other’s faces with blank consternation. Arthur’s head had dropped forward upon his breast. Mrs. Hart sprang to her feet, ran toward the prisoner, grasped her arm, and cried out, “Oh, it is not true. You don’t know what you have said, Ruth. It is not true—she is not guilty, sir,” directing the last words at the clerk. The on-lookers shifted in their seats and conversed together. The court-officers hammered with their gavels and commanded, “Order—silence.” Mr. Romer stood up, and tried to catch the judge’s eye.

“One moment, Mr. Clerk,” the judge had said; then addressing himself to the culprit, “The plea that you offer, Judith Peixada, ought not, in the opinion of the court, to be accepted. The penalty for murder in the first degree is fixed by law, and that penalty is hanging. No discretionary alternative is left to the magistrate. Therefore to permit you to enter a plea of guilty of murder in the first degree, would be to permit self-destruction. It has never been the custom of our courts to accept that plea; though, naturally, they have seldom enough had occasion to decline it. If I remember rightly, the Connecticut tribunals have in one or two instances allowed that plea to be recorded; but, unless I am misinformed, the statutes of Connecticut empower the sentencing officer to choose between death and imprisonment for life.

“I can not consistently and conscientiously violate our precedents, and for that reason I must decline to entertain the plea that you have offered. If, however, you are in your heart persuaded of your guilt, and wish to spare the People the expense and labor of a trial before a jury, I will accept a plea of murder in the second degree, the punishment for which, I must beg you to recollect, is confinement at hard labor in the State Prison for the term of your natural life. The clerk will now put the question to you, Judith Peixada, and you are at full liberty to reply to it as you deem fit.”

“If the court please,” said Romer, “I should like to make a brief statement, before these proceedings are continued.”

“Certainly,” said the judge. “You can wait, Mr. Clerk, until we have heard from the district-attorney.”

Every man and woman in the court-room, save only two, strained forward to catch each syllable that Romer might pronounce. The two exceptions were the prisoner and her husband. He sat huddled up in his chair, apparently deaf and blind to what was going on around. She leaned heavily upon the railing in front of her, and the expression in her eyes was one of weary indifference.

“Will you kindly see that a chair is furnished the prisoner?” Romer asked of the clerk.

An attendant brought a chair. The prisoner sat down.

“If your honor please,” said Romer, “I desire to state that, in case the prisoner be allowed to plead to murder in the second degree, it will be against the protest of the People. The evidence in support of the indictment is of such a nature as to admit of doubt concerning the prisoner’s guilt; and, if it were submitted to a jury, I think the chances would be even whether they would acquit her or convict her. The People feel that there is evidence enough to justify a trial, but they are reluctant to—become accessories to what, in their judgment, may be the hasty act of an ill-advised woman. It is the duty of the district-attorney to endeavor to secure a conviction—it would be his duty to consent to a plea—when fully convinced in his own mind of the accused person’s legal guilt. But when he is doubtful, or at least not entirely satisfied, of that guilt, as I confess to being in the case at bar, it is his duty to submit the question for arbitration to a jury. That, your honor, is the stand which I am compelled to take in these premises. I entertain grave doubts of the prisoner’s guilt—doubts which could only be set at rest by a verdict rendered in the regular way. I protest therefore against the entry of a plea such as your honor has suggested; and, if the court please, I desire that this protest on the part of the People be made a matter of record.”

Mr. Flint and Hetzel breathed more freely. Mrs. Hart fanned herself with manifest agitation.

The judge replied: “The clerk will procure a transcript of the district-attorney’s remarks from the stenographer, and enter the same in the minutes. In response to those remarks, I feel called upon to say that it is to be presumed that the prisoner at the bar, better than any one else, is competent to decide upon the question of her own guilt or innocence. She certainly can not be in doubt as to whether she committed the felony charged against her. The court has already enlightened her respecting the sentence that will be imposed in the event of her pleading guilty of murder in the second degree. Whatever evidence might be adduced in her behalf at a trial, is certainly not to be weighed against her own voluntary and unconstrained confession. It would be contrary to public policy and to good morals for the court to seal the prisoner’s lips, as the district-attorney appears anxious to have it do. The clerk will now put the necessary inquiries to her; and if she elect to offer the plea in debate, the court will feel obliged to accept it.” Romer bowed and sat down.

The clerk forthwith proceeded to business. “Judith Peixada, stand up,” he ordered. Upon her obeying, he rattled off, “Judith Peixada, do you desire to withdraw your plea of guilty of murder in the first degree, and to substitute for the same a plea of guilty of murder in the second degree, as charged in the second count of the indictment? If so, say, ’I do.’.rdquo;

Mrs. Hart cried, “No, no! She does not. Don’t you see that the child is sick? How should she know whether she is guilty or not? Oh, it will be monstrous if you allow her to say that she is guilty.”

“Order! Silence!” called the officers. One of them seized Mrs. Hart’s arm and pushed her into a chair.

The prisoner’s lips moved. “I do,” she whispered.

“You answer,” went on the clerk, “that you are guilty of the felony of murder in the second degree, as charged in the second count of the indictment; and so your plea shall stand recorded. What have you now to say why sentence should not be pronounced upon you according to law?”

Romer stepped forward.

“If your honor please,” he said, “the People are not yet prepared to move for sentence. In the absence of counsel for the prisoner, I must take it upon myself to request that sentence be suspended for at least one week.”

“The court suspends sentence till this day week at eleven o’clock in the forenoon,” said the judge; “and meanwhile the prisoner is remanded to the city prison.”

The prisoner was at once led away.