"But I am her counsel," urged Philip, with a reckless disregard of truth.
The man looked at him disdainfully. "I guess that won't wash, Judge," he said, and turned away determinately.
Mr. Tremain looked down at Dick, who stood crying openly beside him, not even taking the trouble to wipe away the tears as they fell.
"It's no use, Miss Dick," he said, "we can do nothing until morning. You must let me take you home."
"Oh, it's too horrible," cried Dick, sobbing. "It's brutal, it's wicked! Only to think that poor Patricia is somewhere in this awful place and we can't get to her. Oh, Mr. Tremain, which one of those dreadful windows with the iron bars belongs to her——?" she could not bring herself to say "Cell," so choked down the final word in a fresh burst of tears.
"Ah, which indeed!" answered Philip, sadly. The same thought had come to him, as his eyes traversed quickly the long blank stone front of the building, its monotony of outline only broken by the narrow barred casements.
Behind which of those apertures lay Patricia, abandoned in her extremity? Her beauty tarnished, her fair name tossed from lip to lip, her character at the mercy of an unsympathetic human world.
"Oh, Patty, Patty," he cried to his own heart; "has it come to this, my love? Have all your pride and loveliness brought you only to this?"
He turned away slowly, and, drawing Dick's hand within his arm, led her to the carriage that stood some little distance down the street.
"Will you go back to Esther?" he asked as he helped her in.