“Nice state of affairs this, Mr Preston,” said the little prisoner holding out his arms. “Here’s a dress for a gentleman;” and he displayed the rags of Turkish costume he wore. “Chaps saw me at my club now.”
“Charley, will you hold your tongue,” cried his lady angrily. “How am I to explain our position if you will keep on chattering so?”
“But, my darling—”
“Will you be quiet, Charley. Look here, Mr Preston,” she continued, “it’s just three weeks ago, as we were travelling in this horrible country at least ten miles away, we were seized by these horrid men, and brought here. They’ve taken everything we had, and given us these miserable clothes, and every night they come to us and say—”
“They’ll cut off our heads to-morrow morning.”
“Will you be quiet, Charley,” cried the lady, stamping her foot. “How am I to explain? Am I not always telling you what a chatter-box you are.”
“Yes, my dear, always.”
“Silence, sir! Mr Preston,” she continued, as her little husband went softly to Lawrence, and drew him aside to go on whispering in his ear—“Mr Preston, no one knows what we have suffered. As I was saying—I hope you are listening, Mr—Mr—Mr—Mr—”
“Burne, ma’am,” said the old lawyer bowing.
“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. Mr Burne. I beg your pardon. As I was saying they come every night, and say that to-morrow morning they will cut off our heads and send them to Smyrna as an example, if our ransom does not come.”