Hope stopped a moment and leaned against the door, as her eyes met Malbone’s. Then she made her way to a chair, and leaning on the back of it, which she fingered convulsively, looked with bewildered eyes and compressed lips from the one to the other. Malbone tried to speak, but failed; tried again, and brought forth only a whisper that broke into clearer speech as the words went on. “No use to explain,” he said. “Lambert is in New York. Mrs. Meredith is expecting her--to-night after the ball. What can we do?” Hope covered her face as he spoke; she could bear anything better than to have him say “we,” as if no gulf had opened between them. She sank slowly on her knees behind her chair, keeping it as a sort of screen between herself and these two people,--the counterfeits, they seemed, of her lover and her sister. If the roof in falling to crush them had crushed her also, she could scarcely have seemed more rigid or more powerless. It passed, and the next moment she was on her feet again, capable of action. “She must be taken,” she said very clearly, but in a lower tone than usual, “to my chamber.” Then pointing to the candles, she said, more huskily, “We must not be seen. Put them out.” Every syllable seemed to exhaust her. But as Philip obeyed her words, he saw her move suddenly and stand by Emilia’s side. She put out both arms as if to lift the young girl, and carry her away. “You cannot,” said Philip, putting her gently aside, while she shrank from his touch. Then he took Emilia in his arms and bore her to the door, Hope preceding. Motioning him to pause a moment, she turned the lock softly, and looked out into the dark entry. All was still. She went out, and he followed with his motionless burden. They walked stealthily, like guilty things, yet every slight motion seemed to ring in their ears. It was chilly, and Hope shivered. Through the great open window on the stairway a white fog peered in at them, and the distant fog-whistle came faintly through; it seemed as if the very atmosphere were condensing about them, to isolate the house in which such deeds were done. The clock struck twelve, and it seemed as if it struck a thousand. When they reached Hope’s door, she turned and put out her arms for Emilia, as for a child. Every expression had now gone from Hope’s face but a sort of stony calmness, which put her infinitely farther from Malbone than had the momentary struggle. As he gave the girlish form into arms that shook and trembled beneath its weight, he caught a glimpse in the pier-glass of their two white faces, and then, looking down, saw the rose-tints yet lingering on Emilia’s cheek. She, the source of all this woe, looked the only representative of innocence between two guilty things.