“If Urania was not so stubborn,” Dorothy whispered to the tearful Miette, “I believe she would get off easier. But I’m afraid she will not even tell the story, and clear herself. She seems not to be afraid of going to jail.”
“Oh!” wailed Miette, “I do think we ought to go—I wish I had not come—”
“Now, Miette,” said Dorothy, “you must not feel that way. You must have more courage. I am willing to help you, and we should both be willing to help this poor girl.”
There was a reproof in Dorothy’s voice, but Miette was obdurate, and continued to bewail the situation.
Urania trudged along—her fine clothes making a queer mockery of her predicament.
“There’s our quarters,” announced the constable, pointing to a small, new brick building a few squares away.
Miette shuddered.
“It is only to make a record,” Dorothy assured her.
“Then you have been—arrested yourself?”
Dorothy could not restrain a smile. “No, I have never been arrested at all. But I know something about court work,” she answered.