“In for a penny, in for a pound! My dear, if I am sacked for this, you will have to keep me in my old age.”
And he tried to smile. He led her along the corridor, and, dismissing the warder with a nod, himself opened the cell door.
“A visitor for you, Mr. Faradeane,” he said.
Olivia drew her arm from his, paused a moment to draw a long breath, then entered the cell.
Faradeane was lying on the hard pallet, his face resting on his arm. He raised his head, and opened his lips as if about to speak; then he rose and stared, his eyes dilating, his arms stretched out. He had not been asleep, but had been dreaming awake, and it is possible that he thought her a vision conjured up by his infinite longing and despair.
“Olivia!” he murmured, unconsciously. “Olivia!”
She glided across the narrow cell, and held out both her hands.
“Yes, it is I!” she said, and at the sound of her voice he trembled, and his pale, worn face grew crimson.
“You here!” he said, almost inaudibly. “Why have you come? This is no place for you—a prison!”
“It is no place for you!” she retorted, and as she spoke her lovely eyes flashed into his, and her fingers closed tightly on his thin hands.