snare into which we were walking, open-eyed and unashamed.
The night had grown chilly; Therese was shivering in the piercing river-breeze. What was he to do with her? Where could she find shelter at that hour? It was past one o'clock. She must be housed until the morning, when he would get her away from the city.
Sara Harden—she would help him in this strait, and keep the secret of the unfortunate who now clung trembling to his arm.
"Come, Therese, let us walk fast; you are half numb with the damp air."
Mrs. Harden was one of those people who have an inborn prejudice against daylight, preferring the night for pleasure, for thought, and for social intercourse. Philip had not reckoned without his hostess when he had decided to claim her hospitality for the weary creature whose footsteps he supported through the deserted streets. There was a light in the music-room of Darius Harden's house. The blind was partly ajar, and through the window Philip could distinguish a slight figure reclining in a great chair near the reading-table. All the rest of the house was dark. At the risk of startling the little woman he tapped gently on the window and said in a low voice: "Mrs. Harden, it is I, Rondelet; don't be frightened."
