“Thirty-three, fifteen, five,” suggested Cartwright, in a muffled whisper, his mouth being full of biscuit.
“But once they get me to a sponging-house, detainers will pour in, and my cruel creditors will confine me for life.”
“It is the best place for you. It will put a stop to your wickedness, and I shall be at peace. That's what I have never known, night or day, this three years.”
“But you will not be happy if you see me go to prison before your eyes. Were you ever inside a prison? Just think what it must be to be cooped up in those cold grim cells all alone; for they use a debtor like a criminal now.”
Phoebe shuddered; but she said, bravely, “Well, tell THEM you have been a-courting. There was a time I'd have died sooner than see a hair of your head hurt; but it is all over now; you have worn me out.”
Then she began to cry.
Falcon heaved a deep sigh. “It is no more than I deserve,” said he. “I'll pack up my things, and go with the officer. Give me one kind word at parting, and I'll think of it in my prison, night and day.”
He withdrew from the window with another deep sigh, told Cartwright, cheerfully, it was all right, and proceeded to pack up his traps.
Meantime Phoebe sat at her window and cried bitterly. Her words had been braver than her heart.
Falcon managed to pay the trifle he owed for the lodgings, and presently he came out with Cartwright, and the attendant called a cab. His things were thrown in, and Cartwright invited him to follow. Then he looked up, and cast a genuine look of terror and misery at Phoebe. He thought she would have relented before this.