“Enfin,” he said; “what has he done?”
“He has killed a gaoler who was ill-treating a prisoner.”
He startled, frowned, then laughed again, but less easily.
“O, well,” he said, “a gaoler is no great matter. But I must know his name first.”
“Sire, it is my own servant Gogo, that you have robbed me of this long time.”
“O, him!” he said, relieved. “Well, perhaps, after all, we owe him a gaoler or two.”
XXXI.
I KNOW MY OWN HEART
I had hardly got into the street before a hand touched my arm. I turned and saw Gogo.
“It was you,” he said, “won my deliverance this morning?”
“Yes.”