Mr. Tremain did not return to his rooms with the dawning of the day; he indeed shunned them with an almost superstitious dread of what he should find there. It seemed to his overwrought nerves that they must for ever be haunted by the horrible spectres evolved by Miss Dick, and by the memory of her terror-stricken eyes and tear-stained face.

With the lengthening of the morning hours civilisation awoke again to its monotonous round of employment. A grey-coated policeman, making his way to the park, yawning as he walked, and but half awake, passed Mr. Tremain, and turning round stared at him inquiringly.

And, indeed, Philip, as he stood outlined against the clear blue sky, his hands thrust into his pockets, his hat drawn down over his eyes, his face stern and pale, his dress disordered from his long night vigil, appeared a strangely incongruous figure, out of keeping with the fresh dewy daintiness of the summer morning, and might well arouse suspicions in the commonplace mind of a respectable Central Park policeman.

The pertinacity of the man's curiosity awoke in Philip at last a sense of his position, and brought back to him, with a sudden rush, the reason of his presence there—the reason of the dull anguish that grew into keener suffering with each heart-beat. In the bright sunshine everything appeared more hard and real; the night vigil had soothed him somewhat, and the slow on-coming of the dawn had held something of illusive hope in its vague tertiary half-tones; but with the breaking forth of the sun, in the vast triumphant heaven of illimitable blue, came the sternness of reality, the hardness of fact, banishing the gentler mood, and renewing the struggle and vacillation of his mind against his heart.

As the bell of the Sacred Heart Convent rang out for early mass, Mr. Tremain turned his steps citywards, and, walking with long swinging strides, was soon skirting the river Boulevard, and, entering the Park on the west side, made his way to the Fifth Avenue gates, and so down that deserted promenade until he came to an hotel; here he went in, ordered a room, and flinging himself on the bed fell into a deep and dreamless sleep which lasted for hours. It was nature's demand to recuperate her exhausted faculties, and would not be denied.

When Philip awoke it was close upon noon, and greatly annoyed at the flight of time, he swallowed a cup of tea and hurried away. On reaching the gloomy building in Ludlow Street, he demanded an interview with the superintendent, and after considerable delay, was admitted to that functionary's presence.

The office of prison superintendent is one not altogether to be desired; the men who fill the post are usually drawn from the rank and file of disappointed office seekers on a larger scale, who for political reasons consent to be mollified by the less honourable appointment. As a rule they are neither refined in mind nor manner, and, with an eye to the main chance, look upon the inmates committed to their charge as so many victims to be fleeced according to their means.

As we know, there is a golden key that fits all locks, before which even bolts and bars have been known to fly apart, and nowhere is its power so potent and so comprehensive as in the cases of a certain class of prisoners awaiting trial, who if they can control the "coin" can be supplied with every luxury, save those of freedom and fresh air.

The man who received Philip, with a short nod, was neither better nor worse than others of his tribe. He was apparently very busy—or wished to seem so—over a large assortment of letters and bulky documents, which, he rustled ostentatiously, and a trifle offensively, as he looked at Philip over his large round spectacles, and bade him, "Morning."

"Good morning," replied Mr. Tremain, with considerable hauteur.

"Now then, what can I do for you, sir?" asked the superintendent, fussily, and with another documentary rustle.

"I have called," said Philip, quietly, "to obtain full permission to visit and to wait upon a lady now confined here, at all times, and on all days, that I may deem it necessary to do so. The lady's name is—Miss Patricia Hildreth."

He hesitated as the last words passed his lips; how strange it seemed to use her name to this coarse unsympathetic official, how incompatible with all the traditions of his and her past!

"As for my own name," he continued, "it may be better known to you than my personal appearance."

He drew out his note-book and put one of his cards on the table. The superintendent took it up and scrutinised it narrowly.

"Oh, so you're Mr. Tremain, are you?" he said at last, rolling the card between his fingers as he spoke. "Oh, yes, I've heard of you, sir, often enough. I guess we oughtn't to be strangers, Mr. Tremain, since we're both in the same profession."

"Oh, indeed," replied Philip, seeing an answer was expected. "You are a lawyer, then?"

"You can bet on that, sir; I've served my day at the bar, out in the west there," with a comprehensive jerk of his thumb, "and I can tell you we get through some pretty tall work out there. Plenty of cases like the one you're interested in, you know; plenty of blood-letting, and many a pretty young woman mixed up in it all."

Philip winced; this classing of Patricia with the lawless crimes of a wild civilisation seemed little short of brutality, and brought home to him with terrible exactitude the attitude she had assumed, in the eyes of the public, by her association with crime.

The keen eyes of the official noted Philip's susceptibility, and he drew his own conclusions.

"Beg pardon if the subject's distressing," he said, not unkindly; "it's a pretty bad look-out as it stands, Mr. Tremain, and if I was a friend of the lady's, I should own to feeling uncommon squeamish. It takes a deal of evidence to get a warrant issued at any time, and specially against such a top-sawyer as Miss Hildreth. But there, that foreign Count, he's left no stone unturned; he's like one of those old blood-hounds down south, that used to track the niggers before the war. He's tracked to some purpose."

All this was horrible to Philip. It seemed to him he could not stand there and endure this man's crude criticisms and cruel deductions, passed so unconcernedly upon Patricia. To him each look was an open insult, each word a lash wherewith to strike at her; they brought the reality of her position before him with unvarnished accuracy.

She was no longer Miss Hildreth surrounded by her own little court, the cynosure of every eye, the honoured guest of every drawing-room, the reigning favourite of all society; she was only Patricia Hildreth, stripped of all accessories, a woman under arrest, a woman charged with murder, a prisoner awaiting the law; just as any other of the poor wretches within those hateful precincts awaited it, and with no more merciful outlook than had they. It was indeed, as he had said, horrible, incredible, maddening.

His silence had at length impressed itself upon his loquacious companion, who now sat looking up at him keenly, turning the visiting card round in his fingers. It was Philip who was the first to speak, coming back to his immediate surroundings with a start, and turning so sad a face, and such sorrow-haunted eyes, upon the little official, as to rouse to life all the dormant sympathy of his shallow soul.

"And the permit?" asked Philip, quietly. "I should like to use it now, if you please."

His very gentleness disarmed his opponent, who without further comment drew towards him a large volume, and filling in a blank order, tore it out noisily and handed it across the table. Mr. Tremain took it and folded it quickly without glancing at it. Each separate item in this horrible drama was agony to him; he had never fully recognised the gravity of Patricia's position until brought face to face with the official details of it.

"I've made it out as you wanted," said the superintendent a little protestingly, as Philip took up the scrap of paper, "it's available for any day and any hour, up to the official inquiry. You'd like to go to her now, perhaps." He touched an electric bell, and in the moment that passed before the summons was answered, said somewhat awkwardly: "I'm real sorry for the lady, Mr. Tremain, we all are. I've done what I can to make her comfortable, and let us hope her stay with us won't be a very long one. Woods," he continued, addressing the tall warder, who had entered as he was speaking, "take this gentleman to Miss Hildreth, and, look here, he's to come and go as he pleases, do you understand? Good morning, Mr. Tremain."

Philip bowed and walked out of the official presence as one in a dream. He lost even his own identity as he followed the guide down endless passages and corridors, and heard the jingle of the keys he carried suspended by a ring from his finger.

It seemed to him he was back again at the Folly; he was walking along the paths of Esther's flower-garden, with the stillness and hush of the night above and around him. And now he had reached the little hazel-copse and was pushing back the bough that barred his entrance; there was the marble fountain in the distance, he could hear the drip of the water as it fell from the upraised vase in the boy Narcissus' hands; and there was the rustic bench, and the figure in the flowing, shining, white drapery, that rose up hurriedly and came forward a little, holding the soft laces closely about the white throat and heaving bosom.

Yes, it was Patricia—Patricia in all her regal loveliness, in all her wealth of beauty; with her eyes glowing beneath the dark brows, her mouth tremulous and wistful.

He started forward quickly—the vision faded, the night fled away, the tinkling water-drops resolved themselves into the surly clink of key against key on the warder's ring. All the poetry, and grace, and glory fell away from him, as he found himself brought to a standstill before a heavy door, into the lock of which Woods fitted a key from those on the ring, unlocked it, and with a slight push threw it open.

Philip was conscious of a muttered "I'll be back in an hour, sir," and the noise of a closing door behind him; and then he realised that he was alone—face to face with Patricia.