Here, about Ariel, as she stood at the gate of the Pike Mansion, the houses of the good (secure of salvation and daily bread) were closed and quiet, as safely shut and sound asleep as the churches; but deeper in the town there was light and life and merry, evil industry,—­screened, but strong to last until morning; there were haunts of haggard merriment in plenty:  surreptitious chambers where roulette-wheels swam beneath dizzied eyes; ill-favored bars, reached by devious ways, where quavering voices offered song and were harshly checked; and through the burdened air of this Canaan wandered heavy smells of musk like that upon Happy Fear’s wife, who must now be so pale beneath her rouge.  And above all this, and for all this, and because of all this, was that one re-sort to which Joe now made his way; that haven whose lights burn all night long, whose doors are never closed, but are open from dawn until dawn —­the jail.

There, in that desolate refuge, lay Happy Fear, surrendered sturdily by himself at Joe’s word.  The picture of the little man was clear and fresh in Ariel’s eyes, and though she had seen him when he was newly come from a thing so terrible that she could not realize it as a fact, she felt only an overwhelming pity for him.  She was not even horror-stricken, though she had shuddered.  The pathos of the shabby little figure crossing the street toward the lighted doors had touched her.  Something about him had appealed to her, for he had not seemed wicked; his face was not cruel, though it was desperate.  Perhaps it was partly his very desperation which had moved her.  She had understood Joe, when he told her, that this man was his friend; and comprehended his great fear when he said:  “I’ve got to clear him!  I promised him.”

Over and over Joe had reiterated:  “I’ve got to save him!  I’ve got to!” She had answered gently, “Yes, Joe,” hurrying to keep up with him.  “He’s a good man,” he said.  “I’ve known few better, given his chances.  And none of this would have happened except for his old-time friendship for me.  It was his loyalty—­oh, the rarest and absurdest loyalty!—­that made the first trouble between him and the man he shot.  I’ve got to clear him!”

“Will it be hard?”

“They may make it so.  I can only see part of it surely.  When his wife left the office, she met Cory on the street.  You saw what a pitiful kind of fool she was, irresponsible and helpless and feather-brained.  There are thousands of women like that everywhere—­some of them are `Court Beauties,’ I dare say—­and they always mix things up; but they are most dangerous when they’re like Claudine, because then they live among men of action like Cory and Fear.  Cory was artful:  he spent the day about town telling people that he had always liked Happy; that his ill feeling of yesterday was all gone; he wanted to find him and shake his hand, bury past troubles and be friends.  I think he told Claudine the same thing when they met, and