Another nod was the answer.
“You are mistaken.”
The backwoodsman, now perfectly au fait with his pantomimic part of the dialogue, gave a modest but expressive look of dissent.
“I tell you you are mistaken,” continued the young girl, “they are all sawn through. I see you are curious to know who did that?”
Cris said “yes,” without speaking a word.
“It was I!”
“You?” he telegraphed.
“Yes; I was once a close prisoner in this very room—not watched as you are, but still a prisoner. I broke a watch to pieces, took out the mainspring, filed a saw with the nail-cleaning blade of a pen-knife, and with that I sawed away the bars, leaving barely enough to hold them together.”
Carrol’s look expressed astonishment.
“Yes; it was hard work, and it took weeks to accomplish it. I dare say you wonder why I didn’t make my escape. That’s too long a story to tell you now.”