“Arthur,” he began, awkwardly, “try—try to keep quiet, and not—the—the fact is—”
“Is she ill? Is she dead?” cried Arthur, with mad alarm.
“No, no, my dear boy; of course not. Only—only—just now—she—”
“She refuses to see me?”
“Well—”
“I was fully prepared for that. I knew she would.”
His head sank upon his breast.
They had covered half the distance between the Tombs and Beekman Place, when at length Arthur said, “Please, Mrs. Hart, please tell me about your visit.”
Mrs. Hart shot a glance at Hetzel, as much as to ask, “Shall I?” He nodded affirmatively.
“There isn’t much to tell,” she began. “They led me down a lot of stone corridors, and through a yard, and up a flight of stairs, and across a long gallery, past numberless little, black, iron doors; and at last we stopped before one of the doors, and the woman who was with me called out,’.eixada, alias Ripley’—only think of the indignity!—and after she had called it out that way two or three times, a little panel in the door flew open, and there—there was Ruth’s face—so pale, so sad, and her eyes so large and awful—it made my heart sink. I supposed of course they were going to let me in; but no, they wouldn’t. The prison woman said I must stand there, and say what I had to say to the prisoner in her presence.”