“And—and it was a regular prison cell in which she was confined?”
“Oh, yes; it was horrible. The walls were whitewashed, and there was only one little bit of a grated window, and the floor was of stone, and the bed was a narrow iron cot, and she had just a wretched, old, wooden stool to sit on, and the air was something frightful.”
“Did you tell her of our efforts to get bail for her?” asked Hetzel.
“Dear me, I forgot all about it.”
“Perhaps you’d better write her a note, when we get home. I’ll send a messenger with it.”
“All right, I will,” acquiesced Mrs. Hart.
But in Beekman Place she said to Hetzel: “About that note you spoke of—I don’t feel that I can trust myself to write. I’m afraid I should say something that—that might—I mean I think I couldn’t write to her. I should break down, if I tried. Won’t you do it, instead?”
“One word from you would comfort her more than a dozen from me.”
“But—it is such hard work for me to keep control of myself, as it is—and if I should undertake to write—I—I—”
“Oh, very well,” said Hetzel. “Can you let me have pen and paper?”