CHAPTER II.
LUDLOW STREET JAIL.
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.