“He has left the prison these many hours.”
“And, when to return?”
The jailer shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps to-morrow—at any time, or not at all.”
Ned jumped to his feet, upsetting the basket.
“What!” he shrieked. Then, in a moment, realising the practical fact of his isolation—realising all that was implied by it—he fell upon his agitation and smothered it.
“My friend,” he said, “wilt thou convey a letter for me?”
“That depends.”
“Naturally. See, then” (he fetched out a pencil; tore a square from the white paper that lined his basket of provisions)—“I write to the citizen Vergniaud—dating my billet, ‘Prison of La Force’—these words: ‘I am detained here on a ridiculous charge. In the name of sanity, come at once and release me—Murk.’ I put the paper in your hands; as I will put a louis-d’or when you stand before me with the answer.”
The jailer’s eyes twinkled. Said he—