“Paul,” she said, with a little tremor in her voice, “you have hidden nothing from me? You have done nothing wrong, Paul?”
“Wrong!” he exclaimed. “Have I not told thee repeatedly that I am the model convict, the hero of a hundred official commendations, the shining star of the penal administration? Wrong! What dost thou mean?”
“The authorities—” she answered. “There has been a messenger from the mine with a blue official letter. Oh, Paul, it frightens me.”
“Thou needst not fear,” he said. “It is only some matter of routine. I could paper my house (if it would not be misunderstood) with blue official letters about nothing.”
“I am so happy, Paul,” she said,—“so happy that I tremble for my happiness!”
He smiled at her again as he reached his hand for the letter. Nonchalantly he tore it open, but turned deadly pale as he ran his eyes down the sheet inside.
“You must go back to prison?” she cried in a voice of agony.
He could only shake his head.
“Speak!” she cried again. “Paul, Paul, I must know, if it kills me!”
He gave her a dreadful look.