Down came a wet blanket.
“No,” I said dolefully; “he will think I have run away because I was a thief.”
“I can’t go. It is impossible for me to go,” I said passionately, as I began to pace the room, and sheets torn up and tied together with counterpane and blankets, to make out the rope down which I was to slide to liberty, fell away as if they were so much tinder; while the other plan I had of unscrewing the lock of the door, and taking it off with my pocket-knife, so as to steal down the stairs, tumbled to nothing, as soon as I thought that I must steal away.
Just then I started, for there was a tap at the door—a very soft, gentle tap, and then a hoarse whisper.
“Master Burr! Master Burr!”
“Yes,” I said sourly. “Who is it? What do you want?”
“It’s me, my dear. Cook. I’m just going down. Are you dressed yet?”
“Yes.”
“I heard last night that you were shut up. Whatever is the matter?”
I was silent.