To shorten his way, he turned into a cross street in the upper part of the city.  As he approached the hall door of a large brick house, his eye chanced to fall upon a man who was ringing for admittance.  The light from the street lamp fell full upon his face, and he recognized the features of Philip Searle.  At that moment the door was opened, and Philip entered.  Arthur would have passed on, but something in the appearance of the house arrested his attention, and, on closer scrutiny, revealed to him its character.  One of those impulses which sometimes sway our actions, tempted him to enter, and learn, if possible, something further respecting the habits of the man whose scheme he had been commissioned to thwart.  A moment’s reflection might have changed his purpose, but his hand was already upon the bell, and the summons was quickly answered by a good-looking but faded young woman, with painted cheeks and gay attire.  She fixed her keen, bold eyes upon him for a few seconds, and then, tossing her ringlets, pertly invited him to enter.

“Who is within?” asked Arthur, standing in the hall.

“Only the girls.  Walk in.”

“The gentleman who came in before me, is he there?”

“Do you want to see him?” she asked, suspiciously.

“Oh, no.  Only I would avoid being seen by any one.”

“He will not see you.  Come right in.”  And she threw open the door, and flaunted in.

Arthur followed her without hesitation.

Bursts of forced and cheerless laughter, and the shrill sound of rude and flippant talk, smote unpleasantly upon his ear.  The room was richly furnished, but without taste or modesty.  The tall mirrors were displayed with ostentation, and the paintings, offensive in design, hung conspicuous in showy frames.  The numerous gas jets, flashing among glittering crystal pendants, made vice more glaring and heartlessness more terribly apparent.  Women, with bold and haggard eyes, with brazen brows, and cheeks from which the roses of virgin shame had been plucked to bloom no more forever—­mostly young girls, scourging their youth into old age, and gathering poison at once for soul and body—­with sensual indolence reclined upon the rich ottomans, or with fantastic grace whirled through lewd waltzes over the velvet carpets.  There was laughter without joy—­there was frivolity without merriment—­there was the surface of enjoyment and the substance of woe, for beneath those painted cheeks was the pallor of despair and broken health, and beneath those whitened bosoms, half veiled with gaudy silks, were hearts that were aching with remorse, or, yet more unhappy, benumbed and callous with habitual sin.