"Time’s up," said the officer. "I’ve got to go."
"And come down to-morrow, Gus," said Archie. She scarcely heard him as she turned to go.
"Hold on!" he called, pressing his face to the bars. "Say! Gus! Come here a minute."
She returned. She lifted her face, and he kissed her through the bars. And she went away, with sobs that racked her whole form.
As she started out by the convenient side door into the alley, the officer laid a hand on her shoulder.
"You’d better go out the other door," he said.
She climbed the steps behind him, wondering why one door would not do as well as another. She had always gone out that side door before. When they were up-stairs, passing the sergeant’s room, he touched her again.
"What do you want?" she asked in surprise,
"Why?" she exclaimed. Her surprise had become a great fear. He made no reply, and pushed her into the sergeant’s room. Then he whistled into a tube--some one answered. "Come down," he commanded. Presently a woman appeared, a woman with gray hair, in a blue gingham gown something like a nurse’s uniform, with a metal badge on her full breast.
"Matron," said the officer, "take this girl in charge."
"Why! What do you mean?" Gusta exclaimed, her eyes wide, her lips parted. "What do you mean? What have I done? What do you--am I--_arrested_?"
"That’s what they call it," said the officer.
"You’ll find out in time. Take her up-stairs, Matron."
Gusta looked at the officer, then at the matron. Her face was perfectly white.
The matron drew near, put her arm about her, and said:
Gusta swayed uncertainly, tottered, then dragged herself off, leaning against the matron, walking as if in a daze.
It had been months since Marriott had gone up those steps at the Wards’, and he mounted them that November evening with a regret at the loss of the old footing, and an impatience with the events that had kept him away. He had waited for some such excuse as Gusta’s commission now gave him, and the indignation he felt at the girl’s arrest was not strong enough to suppress his gratitude for the opportunity the injustice opened to him. He was sure that Elizabeth knew he was to defend Archie; she must know how sensitive he was to the criticism that was implied in the tone with which the newspapers announced the fact. The newspapers, indeed, had shown feeling that Archie should be represented at all. They had published warnings against the law’s delays, of which, they said, there had already been too many in that county, forgetting how they had celebrated the success and promptness, the industry and enterprise of John Eades. They had spoken of Archie as if he were a millionaire, about to evade and confound law and justice by the use of money. Marriott told himself, bitterly, that Elizabeth’s circle would discuss the tragedy in this same tone, and speak of him with disappointment and distrust; that was the attitude his own friends had adopted; that was the way the lawyers and judges even had spoken to him of it; he recalled how cold and disapproving Eades had been. This recollection gave Marriott pause; would it not now be natural for Elizabeth to take Eades’s attitude? He shrank from the thought and wished he had not come, but he was at the door and he had Gusta’s message--impossible as it seemed after all these thoughts had crossed his mind.