“I suppose we’ll have to reconcile ourselves to waiting and hoping,” said Hetzel.
“Good God! Is she to—to pass the night in prison?” cried Arthur.
“Come, come, my dear boy,” said Mr. Flint.
“We must make the best of it.” Turning to Hetzel. “Where are you going now?” he asked.
“I think—it has just occurred to me—that we ought to see Mrs. Hart,” Hetzel returned.
“Well then, set me down at my house on your way up.” And Mr. Flint gave the necessary instructions to the driver.
Mrs. Hart was posted on her stoop, peering anxiously up and down the street, as the carriage containing Hetzel and Arthur rumbled into Beekman Place. When she saw that the carriage had stopped directly in front of her domicile, she made a rush toward it, pulled open the door, and cried, “Ruth, Ruth—at last you have come back! I was so much worried!” Then, discovering her mistake, “Oh, it is not Ruth? Where can she be?”
“She is perfectly safe,” said Hetzel. “Come into the house.”
“You have seen her?” questioned Mrs. Hart. “She has been gone such a long time! I was frightened half to death. Tell me, why doesn’t she come home? What—?”
Mrs. Hart faltered. By this time they had reached the parlor, which was brilliantly lighted up; and at the spectacle of Arthur’s face, livid enough at best, but rendered doubly so by the gas-jets, Mrs. Hart faltered.