“Is he low and depressed, then?”
“Terribly so, sir. He asked a while ago if any one had called to see him. Of course we guessed whom he meant, and said that a priest had been at the jail that morning, but only to learn the charge under which he was apprehended. He was much mortified on being told that the priest neither expressed a wish to see nor speak with him.”
Grounsell gave a significant glance towards Frank, who now followed the jailer to the prisoner's cell.
“He's crying, sir; don't you hear him?” whispered the jailer to Frank, as they stood outside the door. “You could n't have a more favorable moment.” And, thus saying, he rattled the heavy bunch of keys, in order to give the prisoner token of his approach; and then, throwing open the door, called out, “Here's the gentleman you asked for, Meekins; see that you don't keep him long in this cold place, for he is not very well.”
Frank had but time to reach the little settle on which he sat down, when the door was closed, and he was alone with the prisoner.
CHAPTER XXXVI. THE JAIL.
Frank Dalton was in no wise prepared for the quiet and easy self-possession with which Meekins, after asking pardon for the liberty of his note, took a seat in front of him. Smoothing down his short and glossy black hair with his hand, he seemed to wait for Frank to open the conversation; and while there was nothing of insolence in his manner, there was an assured calmness, far more distressing to a young and nervous invalid.
“You wished to see me, Meekins,” said Frank, at last. “What can I do for you?”
The man bent slightly forward on his chair, and, fixing his keen and penetrating eyes, continued steadily to stare at him for several seconds.