"Oh, something, anything." He glanced at her keenly, and a swift smile lit his features. He spoke very gently. "Myra, you step in back to my mother. Take supper with her. Keep her company. I'm afraid I'm neglecting mother these days." "And the Night Court?" Myra was swallowing sobs. "I'll look in for you at nine o'clock." "Thank you," she whispered. "Oh, thank you." It was something that he thought her worthy. IX RHONA When the policeman with Rhona and Blondy passed up the steps between the green lamps of the new station-house, they found themselves in a long room whose warmth was a fine relief. They breathed more easily, loosened their coats, and then stepped forward. A police sergeant sat behind a railing, writing at a low desk, a low-hanging, green-shaded electric bulb above him. Rhona felt that she had to speak quickly and get in her word before the others. She tried to be calm, but a dull sob went with the words. "That man struck me--knocked me down. I've had him arrested." The sergeant did not look up. He went on writing. Finally he spoke, easily: "True, Officer?" The policeman cleared his throat. "The other way round, Sergeant. _She_ struck the _man_." Rhona breathed hard, a feeling in her breast of her heart breaking. She gasped: "That's not true. He struck me--he struck me." The sergeant glanced up. "What's your name?" Rhona could not answer for a moment. Then, faintly: "Rhona Hemlitz." "Age?" "Seventeen." "Address?" "---- Hester Street." "Occupation?" "Shirtwaist-maker." "Oh!" he whistled slightly. "Striker?" "Yes." "Picketing?" "Yes." "Held for Night Court trial. Lock her up, Officer." Blackness closed over the girl's brain. She thought she was going into hysterics. Her one thought was that she must get help, that she must reach some one who knew her. She burst out: "I want to telephone." "To who?" "Mr. Blaine--Mr. Blaine!" "West Tenth Street feller?" "Yes." The sergeant winked to the policeman. "Oh, the matron'll see to that! Hey, Officer?" Rhona felt her arm seized, and then had a sense of being dragged, a feeling of cool, fetid air, a flood of darkness, voices, and then she knew no more. The matron who was stripping her and searching her had to get cold water and wash her face.... Later Rhona found herself in a narrow cell, sitting in darkness at the edge of a cot. Through the door came a torrent of high-pitched speech. "Yer little tough, reform! reform! What yer mean by such carryings-on? I know yer record. Beware of God, little devil...." On and on it went, and Rhona, dazed, wondered what new terror it foreboded. But then without warning the talk switched. "Yer know who I am?" "Who?" quavered Rhona. "The matron." "Yes?" "I divorced him, I did." "Yes." "My husband, I'm telling yer. Are yer deef?" Suddenly Rhona rose and rushed to the door. "I want to send a message."