And Allard's gray eyes returned assent with an utter calm which overlay the surface of tragedy.
"On the east bank of the Hudson, six miles above Tarrytown," went on the droning voice of the official, then broke as the visitor's cool, slightly imperious tones fell across the monologue:
"Ah, and is it permitted to speak with your inmates, if one has the fancy?"
The official stared, but smiled vaguely.
"Certainly, sir; if you wish," he replied.
Again the eloquent glances of the other two crossed.
"You have much of this work?" queried the visitor, the words scarcely heeded either by speaker or listener in the deeper search for a means of communication.
Allard answered in French, the fluent, barely-accented French of a traveled American:
"That man in gray who accompanies you, monsieur, the man near the window, is not to be trusted. He was released from this place last year, after serving a term for his share in some Paterson anarchistic outrages. He is dangerous, and he watches you constantly."
The visitor was trained to self-control; he did not commit the mistake of looking toward the man in question. But he could not quite check the flash of blended emotions which crossed his own expression.