Somewhat annoyed, he turned to Jimmy Dorr. That gentleman's gaze was fixed, so Sampson followed it. A young woman had taken the seat beside the prisoner. He could not see her face, but something told him that it was attractive—and then he was suddenly interested in the way her dark hair grew about her neck and ears. Dorr was whispering:
“She's the most wonderful thing you ever laid eyes on, Sampy. Wait till you get a good peek at her face. You'll forget your old Miss Hill-obeans. She landed here about a month ago, straight from Spain, where she has been in a convent since she was fourteen. Doesn't speak a word of English—not a syllable, the reporters say. She—Hey! Sh! What the devil's the matter with you!”
Sampson had uttered a very audible exclamation. He was staring at her with widespread, glazed, unbelieving eyes. She had turned to favour the reporters with a wistful, shy, entrancing “good morning” smile, and he looked once more upon the face he had never forgotten and would never forget.
“My God!” he whispered, grasping Dorr's arm in a grip that caused his friend to wince. “Why, it's—Not a word of English! A month ago! Out of a convent!” He was babbling weakly. His brain was not working.
“Is it too hot in here for you, old man!” whispered Dorr, alarmed. “Shall we get out! You look as though—”
“Who is she!” gasped Sampson.
Dorr looked triumphant. “I thought she'd bowl you over. But, my Lord, I didn't dream she'd give you such a jolt as this. The whole damned bunch of us has gone mad over her. She's old Rodriguez's daughter—the Senorita Isabella Consuelo Maria Rodriguez.”