'That is the trouble with most prisons,' said Simone naïvely.
Marion did not hear her. Her head had fallen on her hand again. An hour passed by. The girl seemed to be turned to stone. Just as Simone, busy with her needle, was about to break the oppressive silence, Marion raised her head. There was a strange look in her face, as if she were greeting some one unknown at a distance.
'Don't speak to me,' she said. 'I think—I think I have found a way.' She drew a long breath. The wide grey eyes resting on Simone slowly came back to the measure of the room. 'Yes.' She rose. 'Get my cloak and hood, Simone. I must ask my aunt if we may walk down into the town.'
Marion had barely finished her sentence before Mistress Keziah herself opened the door. She heard in silence Marion's request.
'Had you not better drive?' she said, after a minute's thought.
'I think not, Aunt Keziah. A person can go unnoticed where a coach cannot. And there is not time to explain just now. Do not, I pray you, Aunt Keziah, deny me this hour's liberty.'
'My dear child,' said the old woman, her voice breaking, 'I have but one wish, and that is to help you.'
Marion looked at the speaker. In her hardly suppressed eagerness and excitement, her hands on her cloak, she had scarcely noted her. Now she saw traces of tears. Her arms went suddenly round her aunt's neck in a mute embrace. Then she withdrew herself with a gesture Simone understood. There was no time for weeping.
Mistress Keziah sat down. 'Listen. I can't let you go alone. You must take old Zacchary. He is the most to be trusted, the least inclined to chatter. Ring the bell, Simone—better still, go down and fetch him: say I wish to speak to him.'
'I did want to keep Zacchary out of the way of any possible suspicion, now or later, Aunt Keziah. He is an old man.'