He waited for a little before speaking, himself cold with some nameless fear, and yet profoundly moved to help, if he was able.
“Yes, yes,” he said at length, hearing his own voice tremble. “I am Dr Teesdale. What can I do for you? And who are you?” he added, though he felt that it was a needless question.
Slowly the sobbing died down, the whispers took its place, still broken by crying.
“I want to tell, sir—I want to tell—I must tell.”
“Yes, tell me, what is it?” said the doctor.
“No, not you—another gentleman, who used to come to see me. Will you speak to him what I say to you?—I can’t make him hear me or see me.”
“Who are you?” asked Dr Teesdale suddenly.
“Charles Linkworth. I thought you knew. I am very miserable. I can’t leave the prison—and it is cold. Will you send for the other gentleman?”
“Do you mean the chaplain?” asked Dr Teesdale.
“Yes, the chaplain. He read the service when I went across the yard yesterday. I shan’t be so miserable when I have told.”