But he came back in a little while, panting for breath.
“I ran as far as First Avenue,” he explained; “but he had succeeded in getting out of sight. Never mind. He’ll come home all right. No doubt he needs to be alone.”
Once out of doors, Arthur dashed blindly ahead. It was a sultry night. The odor of ailanthus trees hung heavy on the air. Many people were abroad. On the door-steps of most of the houses, the inmates sat, chatting, smoking, dozing, airing themselves. The city had given itself over to rest and recreation. Through open windows escaped bursts of song and laughter and piano playing. Young girls, dressed in white, promenaded on the arms of young men who puffed cigarettes.
Arthur had no fixed destination. He walked, because walking was a counter-irritant. He walked rapidly, and took no notice of the sights and sounds round about him. He remembers dimly that he left the respectable quarters of the city far behind, and entered a maze of crooked, squalid, foul-smelling streets. Then, he remembers that all at once he looked up and wondered where he was. And there, a blot upon the sky, there loomed the prison that held his beloved.
He remained within eyeshot of this dismal structure till daybreak, when at last he went back to Beekman Place.
CHAPTER IX.—AN ORDEAL.
ARTHUR ran up the steps of Mrs. Hart’s house, and, opening the door with his latch-key, entered the parlor. The gas was burning at full head. Hetzel was stretched at length in an easy-chair, his hands thrust deep into his trowsers-pockets. At sight of Arthur, he rose and advanced on tip-toe to meet him.
“Hush-sh,” he said, putting his finger to his lips. He pointed to the sofa, upon which Mrs. Hart lay, asleep. Then he took Arthur’s arm, and led him through the hall into the back room. There they seated themselves.