"Listen to me, Mary Queen of Scots," she murmured, very low, with anxious glances all about her.
"I don't know who you are nor where you come from, but I believe you will help me—I believe you're sorry for me. You know how badly Joan of Arc's friends felt when she was in prison? I'm sure you do. Well I have a—a dear friend who would die for me, if it would help me. He has no idea where I am. He thinks I don't want to see him. He thinks—he must think—I'm no longer his—his—his friend. If I could only get to him, I should be safe."
"Why don't you write to him?" Caroline suggested.
The girl laughed bitterly.
"If you had prisoners in your fortress, and they wrote letters to their friends to come and get them out, would you mail the letters?" she demanded.
"I s'pose not," said Caroline gravely. Joan of Arc gulped.
"My letters never went," she said. "Now listen: I must go up to my room and get some money—I can't do anything without money. Will you wait here till I come back and not let anyone see you if you can help it? And if they do, will you say that you slipped in at the gate with a party that came in an automobile? One was here lately. Ask if you mayn't stay and see the flowers. And then I will meet you."
She looked hard in Caroline's eyes. "You're only playing," she said, suddenly. "You aren't—you aren't—What is your real name, dear?"
Caroline scowled.
"You better hurry up," she said, "or that gardener'll catch us. You're just like Marie Antoinette," she added irritably. "You think nobody can be anything but only yourself!"