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faith that it would work now any better than it had earlier, she pushed hard at the sailor's shoulders.
     
She imagined the surprise on his face mirrored hers as he was flung aside.
     
She only had eyes for her rescuer while the sailor dropped to his knees, groaned, then scrambled awkwardly away.
     
The stranger doffed his hat and made a sweeping bow. "Your servant," he said.
     
The gesture was grand, unnecessary but appreciated. She wondered where he had come from. "Thank you," she said softly.
     
"May I?" he asked, offering his elbow and an escort out of the alley.
     
She hesitated, watching him warily.
     
Her rescuer understood. "It's natural that your experience has made you cautious, but I assure you, we're not all as loutish as your sailor."
     
"He wasn't my sailor," she said. She swallowed with difficulty; the back of her throat felt raw.
     
"You're not feeling well."
     
She was pleasantly surprised by his observation. Really, she thought, there was nothing particularly threatening about her rescuer's countenance or demeanor. He was a tall man with a narrow face and easy smile. His manner demonstrated concern as he bent solicitously toward her. His dark eyes watched her closely, a certain appeal for her trust in them. "I have a sore throat," she said.
     
He nodded. "I thought it must be something like that. When you didn't scream "I couldn't."
     
"Then what we need to do is get you somewhere warm and safe."
     
She made her decision; she gave him her arm.
     
They stepped out of the alley and onto the street. Gaslight laid a muted yellow circle around them. When a trio of men spilled out of a nearby saloon she edged closer to her rescuer.
     
Her action did not go unnoticed. "Harlan Porter," he said, introducing himself.
     
"Thank you, Mr. Porter." She did not return the introduction.
     
Sometimes it seemed that scandal was synonymous with her last name, but thus far she had managed not to be at the center of it.
     
There was no desire on her part to have that change now.
     
She would not have herself or her family embarrassed if any of this night's adventures came to light. "Will you hail me a cab?"
     
"I'd be happy to, but we'll have to walk a bit from here.
     
Hansoms don't generally come this way. Perhaps it's obvious to you now, but this is not the most savory section of the city."
     
She fell into step beside Harlan Porter, grateful for his protection.
     
The thoroughfare did not seem quite so sinister in the presence of her companion; the music and laughter from the dance halls was less raucous. They walked for several blocks and she noticed a gradual improvement in the area. Structurally the houses went from clapboard to brownstone, the street was less rutted, the signs indicating businesses were in good repair, and the pedestrians were no longer staggering. Red lights still dotted the occasional window but the establishments appeared to cater to the uptown crowd.
     
"Cabs frequent the street just beyond here," Harlan Porter told her.
     
"If you want to wait, I can go ahead and get one to come here."
     
Not wanting to be left alone, she shook her head furiously.
     
"Very well, but you're tiring. May I suggest a shortcut through here?"
     
He pointed to a passage between two homes similar to the one where she had been accosted by the sailor.
     
Her first instinct was to run. When rational thought asserted itself she realized it was better to face her fear. After all, she couldn't avoid dark, narrow passages the rest of her life. That described most of the aisles in the library that she loved to frequent.
     
Besides, she reasoned, it had been the sailor who had posed the threat, not the space, and it was small of her to generalize his behavior to all men. Harlan Porter had extended himself to her generously.
     
"Or perhaps you'd rather walk around," he suggested.
     
She shook her head, touching her throat to indicate the ache. "I'm tired," she said.
     
"Don't try talking. I understand.