"Philip!" she cried, eagerly, and came forward, her hands held out in greeting, and then, as if struck by some sudden remembrance, and with a return to her old imperious manner, she dropped her hands, and turning, walked away from him towards a small table that stood at the further end of the room.

Mr. Tremain remained motionless just within the door, his senses taking in by degrees the surroundings, and growing accustomed to the half gloom that served as an apology for daylight, and that made its way through the narrow barred casement set high up in the whitewashed wall.

The room was too large to be called a cell, and if sparsely furnished, was not uncomfortable. Philip noted an easy-chair and a rug spread beneath the table, while on the table were writing materials and books, and a vase of delicate-hued roses; the counterpart of those he had seen in Esther's boudoir the night before. It touched him strangely to see this proof of Esther's love and Esther's faith; the golden blossoms came, he knew, from the rose-houses at the Folly, and spoke eloquently of Mrs. Newbold's belief in Patricia's innocence, since their presence in that prison-room—fraught as they were with so many memories—must, if she were guilty, prove a scourge rather than a comfort.

It took Philip some moments to realise his position and to adjust his faculties; when at last he roused himself and looked across the dimly-lighted room, it was to meet Patricia's eyes fixed upon him with an expression of proud endurance, that was more pathetic than tears.

She had seated herself at the table and was leaning forward, her hands folded across the portfolio that lay open before her. She was dressed in black, and the severe lines and folds of the yielding cashmere seemed to mark with painful accuracy the increased slenderness of her form—a slenderness, it struck Philip, that had almost reached attenuation. Her face was very pale; only the vivid burning scarlet of her lips, and the blue fire of her eyes beneath the straight dark brows, redeemed it from absolute pallor.

The confinement, added to the tropical heat without, and the close atmosphere within, had told visibly upon her freshness and vigour; there was a lassitude about her attitude and a weariness in the lines of her face that bespoke mental as well as physical exhaustion, and now that the sudden flush, called up at sight of him, had died out of her cheeks, Philip perceived how hollow they had grown, and how the circles under her eyes had darkened. Her hands as they rested on the open portfolio were stripped of all their wonted brave array of rings, and looked as white as the paper beneath them, the blue veins painfully apparent.

It was thus that he saw her again; it was thus that they met after that parting on the night of the theatricals when she, radiant, beautiful, sparkling with jewels, triumphant and successful, had laughed aside his love, and swept by him with a light jest and indifferent word, that wounded deeper than she might ever know. He had gone from her then, smarting under his humiliation, and in the hour of his pain proffered the love she had rejected to another woman, who could scarcely be called her rival, and yet who influenced him as potentially as she.

And what the result had been of that second wooing he dared not now remember, for even as he recalled his bondage to AdÈle Lamien, and as he looked upon the wrecked beauty, the stained loveliness of the woman before him, so, too, he realised that he loved her and her only, loved her better in this her hour of disgrace and misery than ever before; and that never in reality had his true allegiance swerved from this one woman of his heart—Patricia Hildreth.

The silence between them grew oppressive, embarrassing; it was she who first broke through it, saying, in a voice that trembled somewhat, and with a little laugh that was but a pitiful mockery of its old gaiety, and that ended in a half sob:

"So you have come at last to see me, Philip. Well, and is it not absurd that you should seek and find me—here?" She emphasized her words by a swift glance up at the grated window and around the bare un-homelike room.

At her voice Philip awoke as it were to life, his eyes followed hers in that momentary, but comprehensive glance, and he understood only too well the meaning of the quickly-repressed sigh, that half escaped her, as she caught the gleam of yellow light upon the roses in the tall vase.

He crossed the room quickly, and standing beside her, rested his hand near hers, bending over her and speaking rapidly, in a voice whose deep emotion was only kept in check by his strong will.

"Patty," he said, "believe me, I came as soon as I could. I knew nothing of your trouble until last evening, when Miss Dick came to me about it. I lost no time then. I, we, came to—to this place late as it was, but we were not permitted to see you, we were obliged to go away and wait until the morning."

At the sound of her homely, familiar diminutive her lips trembled, though she answered with a little smile:

"Yes, the rules of this—this institution are rigorously observed;" then with a sudden transition to the old mocking raillery: "Ah, Philip, in all your gloomy prognostications for my future you never once thought of me as coming to—this—did you?"

The flippant words and manner jarred on him, he drew back from her mentally, and found himself wondering if there could be any situation in life, however tragic, that she would take seriously; and as he thought this, Patricia was noting the difference between his hand and hers, as they rested on the table side by side. Hers so white and dainty, luxurious, useless, with rounded nails and rosy finger-tips; his strong and nervous, with fine lines in the long firm fingers and well-modelled wrist. Were they not fitting types of their two characters?

"Patricia," he said again, and even more gently because of his half criticism of her, "it is a very terrible grief to me to find you here, and to know the—the reason of it all. I have come now because I want you to hear one thing from my own lips, and that is, Patty, that all I have, or can give you at this time, is yours without the asking, if you care to make use of it. I know I may be too late in offering you my services—indeed, I may be too late to be of any practical advantage to you—but in any case, as a lawyer, or a friend, I beg you will command me. You can surely trust my friendship."

At the last word she smiled, and raising her eyes met his, with a sudden leaping to life of the old blue fire in her own.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Yes, oh yes, I am quite sure I can rely upon the disinterestedness of your—friendship." Then, after a moment's silence: "Have you seen Esther? How is she? These are her roses. Are they not exquisite, and redolent of the Folly?"

"They are redolent of my folly," he answered sharply, and then continued, hurriedly withdrawing his hand from its close proximity to hers, "I saw Mrs. Newbold last evening; she has made herself quite ill by grieving over you and your present position. She is a most loyal friend, Patricia."

"And loyalty is so priceless an ingredient in—friendship," replied Miss Hildreth, "one should put a fictitious value upon it when one finds it. Will you find a chair, Philip, and sit down? I believe I shall make use of your protestations now."

He crossed the room in answer to her invitation, bringing back with him the one other chair afforded by official regulations. Her eyes followed his movements, and a smile, half tender, half wistful, trembled about her lips, fleeting in its gentleness as was her mood; for, when Philip returned and seated himself at some little distance from her, the fine well-cut lips were closed firmly and with something of sternness in their expression.

"Philip," she began, in a low distinct voice, and looking at him with resolute decision, "let us have done with this beating round the bush; let us be quite frank with one another for this one half-hour at least. You know why I am here; you know I have been arrested on a warrant for complicity in a murder."

He made a hurried gesture of appeal, and would have spoken, but she appeared not to heed him.

"They are ugly words; it is an ugly charge to bring against me, but since it has been brought I should like you to tell me, Philip, just what will be the course pursued. What will be the next move in the game? I have been here now—in prison—three days; ah, it does not do to mince one's words, my friend! And so far I am absolutely in the dark regarding my possible fate. What will happen to me next, Philip? What is the next step usual in such cases?"

For a moment Mr. Tremain looked at her in unfeigned amazement. Her coolness, her almost indifference staggered him. He had expected to find her overcome with apprehension and dismay, full of fears for the future; dependent, humble, imploring. Instead of which she met him with her accustomed ease and grace, and with even a touch of that old badinage which had always jarred somewhat upon him.

He could not but contrast Dick Darling's passionate pleading, and Esther's tears, with the calmness and self-possession of the friend for whom they wept and pleaded. Was she worthy of the intense devotion it seemed her prerogative to call forth? With this question his old doubt of her reawakened, and when he answered her it was with a possession no less assured than her own.

"To reply with anything like accuracy I must be professional," he said. "That you will understand?"

She made a little gesture of assent.

"It is useless for me to cite any usual course of procedure," he continued, "because all the details and circumstances surrounding this case are of so peculiar a character as to admit of no ordinary precedent. You have been arrested, not under the law strictly speaking, but under what is defined as the comity of nations; that is, that sufficient evidence of an incriminating character has been lodged against you to induce the authorities to accede to the pressing request of a foreign Power and to issue a warrant for your arrest. This arrest will be followed by an official inquiry, which consists chiefly in an examination of the warrant, to determine its regularity, and the identity of the person therein named with the person arrested."

"And this examination," she interrupted, "where does it take place?"

"Before the District Judge. Undoubtedly it will come under his jurisdiction."

"And this particular inquiry—my inquiry? How soon shall I be inquired into?" she asked again, with a scornful inflection of voice, and a little smile.

"Judge Anstice is the District Judge for New York," he replied, in his coldest and most professional manner; "this particular examination will come on next week at the latest, it has only been delayed on account of Anstice's unavoidable absence."

"I see," she answered. "And what happens next, Philip? You must forgive my utter ignorance, the situation is a novel one for me."

Again there was a sufficiency of mockery in her voice to strike Mr. Tremain afresh with the complete incongruity of the entire situation. It was evident she either did not, or would not, comprehend the gravity of her position; she was still looking at it as an outsider and not as the principal actor, the pivot upon which all turned; just as she forgot or put aside the terrible nature of the charge, and the fearful compensation demanded should that charge be substantiated.

"Good heavens," thought Philip; "she cannot realise it is for complicity in a murder that she stands accused! She cannot realise the nature of the obstacles that lie between her and acquittal, or how awful will be the consequences should our efforts in her behalf fail."

"Well," she said again, "what happens next, Philip? What is the next proceeding of the law? You have brought me as far as the Judge and the inquiry, what follows after?"

"Should there be any fault in the warrant papers," answered Mr. Tremain, speaking against his will, and in short detached sentences, "or should the evidence brought forward by those who obtained the arrest fail to be of such a character as to justify the person under arrest being put on trial, that person would be discharged, and therefore freed from any further action. The arrest in fact falls to the ground, unsubstantiated, there being no prim facie case."

"And if otherwise, Philip? If the evidence is of such a nature as to prove a prim facie case, what then?"

She asked this question very slowly, looking at him steadily with unflinching eyes.

"Then," he answered as slowly, and with every line of his stern face tense and drawn, "then I fear—I believe, that the person under arrest would be dealt with in the same manner as though legally proved guilty; the accused would doubtless be sent back to the country from which the request for arrest emanated, and where the crime was committed, for trial according to that country's laws."

"I understand," she said, after a moment's absolute silence; "and in this particular case—in my case—that would mean—Petersburg?"

He made no other reply save an assenting gesture of his hand.

For a long interval there was silence between them; a silence in which each was lost to the other's presence, and which was so full of dark meaning, so pregnant with dread possibilities, as to leave upon each like traces to those once impressed indelibly upon the countenance of a saint of old, who for one brief second was permitted to gaze into the bottomless pit of anguish.

Again it was the woman who first broke the silence, and though it was but the lightest whisper it pierced Philip's soul with dismay.

"Petersburg," she murmured, "and that means the mercies of the Imperial Chancellerie!"

"Patty," cried Philip with sudden passion, "this terrible alternative must never come to pass—it must be averted at all costs; do you hear me?—must be. You must be frank with me now, as frank as though your last hour had come. Answer me with absolute truth the questions I shall ask. I can only save you if you will save yourself."

She was not slow to read his meaning beneath his words, and the smile that curved her lips was bitter enough as she exclaimed:

"So you doubt me, Philip—you!" Then, with a quick indrawn breath: "Ask any questions you like, I will answer them."

"You know by whom your arrest has been accomplished?" he said quickly, avoiding any definite answer to her reproach.

"Yes, by Count Vladimir Mellikoff."

"And the charge?"

"For being an accomplice in the murder of Count Stevan Lallovich," she answered quietly.

"Did you ever know this Count Stevan Lallovich?"

"Yes."

"Did you know of his murder?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the circumstances connected with it?"

"Yes."

"Will you tell them to me?"

"I had rather not do so—now."

"Very well, let that pass. Did you ever know Count Mellikoff previous to meeting him at the Folly?"

"No, I think not. One meets so many people in the course of one's life; but I am quite sure I had never met Count Mellikoff before."

"Do you know of any reason he might have for enmity against you?"

"No, indeed; none whatever."

"It is very extraordinary," Mr. Tremain continued after this brief colloquy. "I cannot but think there is some other person mixed up in this affair besides Count Mellikoff, some one who has perhaps personal motives to serve in bringing this charge against you. Can you think of any one who has sufficient cause against you to make such a course possible? Any woman, let us say, to whom the blackening of your character would give a vindictive satisfaction?"

"Ah," she replied, with a scornful gesture, and the superiority of a beautiful woman over her plainer sisters, "I cannot follow you there. We all have our feminine enemies without doubt; but who of us can put our finger on the most venomous of them?"

"All the same we must find this one, Patricia; when we find her we shall perhaps unearth the secret of her spleen. I am convinced Count Mellikoff has a woman for his ally."

Miss Hildreth shrugged her shoulders, but made no further reply. Presently, however, she turned a little more towards him, leaning still further across the table, and looking full into his eyes, said, with sudden directness:

"Why do you ask nothing concerning your friend, AdÈle Lamien, Philip? Do you not know that she, too, is implicated in this affair?"

"AdÈle Lamien!" he exclaimed, taken off his guard by the unexpectedness of the assault. "Good Heavens! what has she to do with all this?"

"Ah, what indeed?" answered Miss Hildreth, slowly. "Fathom her motives, Philip, and you will lay bare the secret of my arrest."

"Patricia," he cried again, strangely moved and excited by her words and manner, and by the sudden return of that vague, intangible influence, evoked by the mere mention of Mdlle. Lamien's name, that had from the first played so distinct a part in his intimacy with her, "Patricia, what do you mean? Explain yourself. What can AdÈle Lamien have to do with you?"

"Ah, what indeed?" she answered, in the same measured tones, still looking at him earnestly. "What indeed? All—or nothing,—Philip. Simply that."

"I must know more," he exclaimed, almost roughly. "You must tell me what you mean. I must find her."

"That may prove more difficult than you imagine," answered Miss Hildreth, quietly, and as she said the words, Woods the warder entered, and Philip understood the end of his interview had come.

He got up mechanically and held out his hand. "It is best I should go for a little while," he said. "I will come back again. After all, we have settled very little."

"I should say we had settled a great deal," she answered, with another of those quick, mocking smiles.

Then she bade him good-bye; and it was not until he had walked up the longer half of Broadway, that Mr. Tremain remembered two things. Patricia had calmly ignored his outstretched hand, and he had forgotten to inquire of the superintendent the nature of Mdlle. Lamien's complicity in the charge brought against Miss Hildreth.