“I don’t know why you should be wretched,” she said. “They’re not after your money!”
“You can laugh—and how you can, I don’t know,” sobbed the girl, as she took the cup in her shaking hands. “I know I’m a fool, but I’ve never been locked up—like this before. I didn’t dream he’d break his word. He swore he’d come yesterday. What time is it?”
“Six o’clock,” said Mirabelle.
It might as well have been eight or midday, for all she knew to the contrary.
“This is a filthy place,” said the hysterical girl. “I think they’re going to drown us all . . . or that thing will explode”—she pointed to the green baize box—“I know it! I feel it in my blood. That beast Gurther is here somewhere, ugh! He’s like a slimy snake. Have you ever seen him?”
“Gurther? You mean the man who danced with me?”
“That’s he. I keep telling you who he is,” said Joan impatiently. “I wish we could get out of here.”
She jumped up suddenly.
“Come and see if you can help me lift the trap.”
Mirabelle knew it was useless before she set forth on the quest for freedom. Their united efforts failed to move the stone, and Joan was on the point of collapse when they came back to their sleeping-room.