A dark shadow close to the wall moved a little.
“Come now, can’t one of you lads help a poor maid?” said I. “It’s a shame of Joel to leave me in the lurch like this. Come, give us a hand!”
I was trembling like an aspen leaf. Suppose the wrong man offered to help me! What could I do then?
“Want a hand, my pretty maid?” said a voice which certainly was not Colonel Keith’s. “I’m your man! Give us hold!”
Oh, what was I to do! This horrid man would carry the basket, and how could I explain to the warder? How could I know which warder was the right one?
“Now then, hold hard, mate!” said a second voice, which I greeted with delight. “Just you let this here young woman be. How do, Betty? Why, wherever’s Joel? He’s no call to let the likes o’ you carry things o’ thisn’s.”
What had the Colonel done with his Scots accent? I did not hear a trace of it.
“Oh, Will Clowes, is that you?” said I, giving a little toss of my head, which I thought would be in character. “Well, I don’t know whether I shall let you carry it.”
The next minute I felt how wrong I was to say so.
“Yes, you will,” said Colonel Keith, and took the basket out of my hands. I should never have known him, dressed in corduroy, and with a rake over his shoulder. He shouted something, and the great prison door opened slowly, and a warder put his head out.