"I did not dare tell her. I had to risk it. I do not want her ever to know, Rupert, if it can be helped."
"She'll be no wiser for me. What are you going to do now, Miss Dolly? We ain't far off the place."
"I am going to get my father to go home with me. You needn't come in. Better not. You go back to the gondola and wait there for a little say—a quarter or half an hour; if I do not come before that, then go on home."
"But you cannot go anywhere alone?"
"Oh no; I shall have father; but I cannot tell which way he may take to get home. You go back to the gondola,—or no, be in front of St. Mark's; that would be better."
"I am afraid to leave you, Miss Dolly."
"You need not. One gets to places where there is nothing to fear any more."
Rupert was not sure what she meant; her voice had a peculiar cadence which struck him. Then they turned another corner, and a few steps ahead of them saw the light from a window making a strip of illumination across the street, which here was unvisited by the moonbeams.
"That is the place," said Rupert.
Dolly slackened her walk, and the next minute paused before the window and looked in. The light was not brilliant, yet sufficient to show several men within, some sitting and drinking, some in attendance; and Dolly easily recognised one among the former number. She drew her arm from Rupert's.