"Here we are! Now, shall we go first to Mr. Barrington?"
"When I have all these weightier matters off my mind I can better enjoy my feminine errands, I imagine."
"Certainly. And I hope we'll find him in."
He reached down her umbrella and followed her from the coach. The brakeman winked at the porter, and jerked a thumb towards them, as they walked leisurely down the platform.
"Best looking bride I've seen this season!" he remarked emphatically. "And the groom's got no eyes for any one else. Gee! Don't her clothes fit, though?"
"It's her figger fits," laughed the fat porter, with an unctuous chuckle. "Coffee sacks 'uld look well on her."
Mr. Barrington soon put them on the right path for their legal quest, and before noon they were following a turnkey along a dim stone corridor, which led to the hospital cell where Lozcoski was confined. A third party trailed respectfully in their rear. He was an interpreter whom Joyce had insisted upon securing, at a rather startling sum—for he was reported versed in every patois of Poland—that they might have an opportunity to converse freely with his countryman, before the latter was called upon to testify in the matter.
As the cell door opened before them a wild figure started up from the bunk, and stared through the gloom with great eyes. Joyce drew back, half startled, and Dalton spoke quickly, in a tone of authority.
"Bring this lady something to sit on outside here. She can't go in there."
A chair was brought, and he stood close beside her, repeating her low-toned requests aloud to the interpreter.