She was simply carrying out her part of the programme, and she knew that Roger and George were watching her from behind half-closed lids. If they could help her they would; but the time had not come for their help yet.
"I left America only a year ago," she answered, "and one forgets things of this sort when they happen very far away."
"Naturally. But it was an uncommon case. Maxime Dalahaide was condemned to death for murdering a beautiful young actress, with whom he was in love—jealousy alleged as the cause. However, powerful influence saved him from death and sent him to us. I do not know that he was properly thankful."
Virginia showed a little decorous interest, such as a stranger might legitimately take in the hero of such a tale. "This story ought to make a splendid anecdote for our book," she exclaimed. "Is the man handsome?"
"You might not think so if you saw him now. The costume of the forçat is not becoming. But he is still quite young, between twenty-eight and nine. You can see his portrait if you like, mademoiselle, at the Bureau of Anthropometry, where each convict's photograph is taken, with every possible view of his face, when he first becomes an inmate of the prison."
"I would rather see the man himself," answered Virginia. "If you would only let my brother and me have an interview with him; think how it would help our book! Ah, monsieur, that would be kind. I should never forget your goodness in giving me such a chance."
The gallant Commandant hesitated. But—the permit in the possession of these three favoured visitors was very explicit. They were to have privileges scarcely ever granted before, and he had therefore the best of excuses for obliging the beautiful American girl.
"Do say yes!" persuasively added Virginia.
"I really think I may conscientiously do so," replied the old Frenchman, delighted to please the most radiant being he had seen for many a long year. "Number 1280 has acted for some time as secretary in one of the bureaux; but another convict, displaced for Dalahaide because of carelessness and inaccuracy, was jealous of the favour shown the aristocrat (ah, I assure you they know all about each other's affairs and circumstances here!), contrived to make a rough knife out of a piece of flint, and stabbed his rival in the back, narrowly missing the lungs. As it was, the wound was a serious one, and Dalahaide is in the hospital. The would-be murderer is now undergoing punishment in what we call the Black Cell."
"The wound was not actually dangerous?" Roger hastened to inquire, seeing that Virginia's lips were white.