thieves; poverty and its companion, crime, lurked on every
shadowy staircase of the barracklike houses, or peered, red-eyed, from
every alleyway.

And into this city of contrasts--of gray women of the night hugging
gratings for warmth and accosting passers-by with loathsome gestures, of
smug civilians hiding sensuous mouths under great mustaches, of dapper
soldiers to whom the young girl unattended was potential prey, into
this night city of terror, this day city of frightful contrasts, ermine
rubbing elbows with frost-nipped flesh, destitution sauntering along
the fashionable Prater for lack of shelter, gilt wheels of royalty and
yellow wheels of courtesans--Harmony had ventured alone for the second
time.

And this time there was no Peter Byrne to accost her cheerily in the
twilight and win her by sheer friendliness. She was alone. Her funds
were lower, much lower. And something else had gone--her faith. Mrs.
Boyer had seen to that. In the autumn Harmony had faced the city
clear-eyed and unafraid; now she feared it, met it with averted eyes,
alas! understood it.

It was not the Harmony who had bade a brave farewell to Scatchy and the
Big Soprano in the station who fled to her refuge on the upper floor of
the house in the Wollbadgasse. This was a hunted creature, alternately
flushed and pale, who locked her door behind her before she took off
her hat, and who, having taken off her hat and surveyed her hiding-place
with tragic eyes, fell suddenly to trembling, alone there in the
gaslight.

She had had no plans beyond flight. She had meant, once alone, to think
the thing out. But the room was cold, she had had nothing to eat,
and the single slovenly maid was a Hungarian and spoke no German. The
dressmaker had gone to the Ronacher. Harmony did not know where to find
a restaurant, was afraid to trust herself to the streets alone. She went
to bed supperless, with a tiny picture of Peter and Jimmy and the wooden
sentry under her cheek.

The pigeons, cooing on the window-sill, wakened her early. She was
confused at first, got up to see if Jimmy had thrown off his blankets,
and wakened to full consciousness with the sickening realization that
Jimmy was not there.

The dressmaker, whose name was Monia Reiff, slept late after her evening
out. Harmony, collapsing with hunger and faintness, waited as long as
she could. Then she put on her things desperately and ventured out.
Surely at this hour Peter would not be searching,