“Sergeant,” said Miss Willmot, “I want to speak to your prisoner.”
Sergeant O’Rorke scratched his ear doubtfully. Miss Willmot had no right to see the prisoner. He had no right to open the door of the cell for her. They had hammered some respect for discipline into Sergeant O’Rorke when he served in the Irish Guards. But they had not hammered the Irish nature altogether out of him. He was willing to go to great lengths, to take risks in order to oblige a friend whom he liked and respected. He had an Irishman’s feeling that laws and regulations are not meant to apply to ladies like Miss Willmot.
“Did you think to ask leave of the Major, miss?” he said.
“No,” said Miss Willmot, “I didn’t ask anybody’s leave.”
“That’s a pity now,” said O’Rorke; “but sure the Major would never have said no if you’d have asked him.”
He fitted the key into the lock and flung open the door of the cell.
“Prisoner, ‘tention,” he said.
Miss Willmot entered the small square room, lit by a single electric light. It was entirely bare of all furniture, save a single rug, which lay rolled up in a corner. The walls and floor were lined with sheets of zinc. A young man stood stiffly to attention in the middle of the room. Miss Willmot stared at him.
Then she turned to Sergeant O’Rorke. “Shut the door please, sergeant, and wait outside.”
The young man neither stirred nor spoke.