“Oh, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs. Hart, gulping down a sob, and left the room.
During her absence, Bridget brought in the coffee.
“Take a cup up to your mistress,” said Hetzel.
Then he poured out a cup for Arthur. He had to use some persuasion to induce him to drink it; but eventually he prevailed. Having swallowed a portion for himself, he lighted a cigarette.
“Better try one,” he said, with a woful attempt at cheerfulness, offering the bunch to Arthur. “There’s nothing like tobacco to brace a man up.”
But Arthur declined.
Half-past nine was leisurely in arriving. At last, however, they heard the grinding of carriage-wheels upon the pavement outside.
They climbed into the carriage. The coachman cracked his whip. Off they drove.
That drive was a purgatory. At its start their hearts were oppressed by a nameless terror. It had intensified into a breathless agony, before their drive was over. Their foreheads were wet with cold perspiration. Their lips were ashen. As they turned from Broadway into Leonard Street, and knew that they were nearing their journey’s end, each of them instinctively winced, and gasped, and shuddered. When the carriage finally drew up before the prison entrance, not one of them dared to speak or to stir.
At last Hetzel said, “Well, here we are.”