Old Father Martin, the warden, found his office almost a sinecure. There were never many inmates of the prison, at any period. And sometimes for months together it would be quite vacant, so that in rainy weather its corridors and cells would be the play-ground of the warden's grandchildren.
Now however, there were some ten or twelve petty offenders confined there, who were waiting trial for such comparatively small offences as disorderly conduct, assault, etc.
Sybil had never in her life seen even the outside of this prison.
So when the carriage drew up before the outer gate, and Mr. Berners alighted and handed her out, and said that they would be obliged to stop here at Mr. Martin's until the storm should be over, she silently acquiesced, and permitted herself to be led, under the shelter of the sheriff's umbrella, up to the door of the building.
At the sheriff's ring, it was opened by the turnkey in attendance.
The sheriff immediately led his prisoner into the warden's office.
They were followed by Mr. Berners and the two Pendletons.
"I was expecting of this here," said the warden, as he drew forward a chair for the lady.
Sybil sank into it, weary, stupefied, apathetic, and utterly unconscious of her real situation.
Beatrix Pendleton sat down by her side and took her hand. Lyon Berners hung over the back of her chair. The little Skye terrier, who had followed the party, jumped upon her lap and coiled itself up there. Sybil noticed no one, but sat curiously contemplating the tips of her gloved fingers.