Her eyes followed the tall, straight figure of the detective until he halted in the rear of an out-building. The negro girl halted also. Violet, watching with her very heart in her eyes, saw that Dunbar was engaged in earnest conversation with the girl; and the way in which he occasionally glanced up at the house made Violet hope that his business with the girl had reference to some one within the building; and if some one, why not herself?
It seemed absurd, but Violet Arleigh’s confidence and faith in the detective’s powers were almost unlimited. She knew that he had sworn never to give up his search for Rosamond Arleigh, her poor, unfortunate mother; then why should he not seek Violet also? She knew that as soon as she would be missed from Yorke Towers there would be great excitement throughout the country; so Dunbar would know the truth at once, and perhaps he had tracked her down to the dismal prison-house in which she was confined.
A swift impulse darted into her brain. If she could only write a line and convey it to him in some way, surely he would help her, even though his business at the asylum should have no connection with herself.
Attached to her watch-chain was a tiny gold pencil. She had no paper; but such obstacles are sometimes overcome when one is in dead earnest, as Violet was now. Smoothing out her pocket-handkerchief upon the table, she managed to write upon it with the pencil:
“Mr. Dunbar—I am a prisoner in this place. If you do not get me out before night, I shall be forced to marry Gilbert Warrington, my mother’s hated foe.
“Violet Arleigh.”
Rolling the handkerchief up into a ball, she mounted the table once more and peered eagerly forth, her heart contracting with a sickening fear lest he should be gone. No, thank Heaven, he is still in sight! The sash had been removed from the window to admit the air; it was an easy matter for Violet to carry out her hastily formed plan. She drew close to the iron bars, and called aloud, at the top of her voice, “Mr. Dunbar!”
The detective glanced upward. With an inward prayer for help, Violet pushed the handkerchief, rolled into a ball, through the bars; it fell at Dunbar’s feet. He stooped and picked it up, his eyes seeking the window with a swift, glad glance. He saw her and recognized her. Thank Heaven! He lifted his hat with a little, expressive gesture, which somehow made Violet’s heart glad, and filled her with confidence as he walked away, the handkerchief still clasped in his hand. She felt that she was in safe keeping, and that there was hope for her at last.
She watched the detective out of sight; then she descended from her perch upon the table, and pushed it back into its place; then she sat down to wait, she hardly knew for what. But it was wonderful how that tiny hope, and her confidence in the detective’s ability and willingness to help her, had power to buoy up the girl’s sinking heart, and make her strong in mind and body.
As she sat buried in thought the door of the cell opened and old Mrs. Carter made her appearance. Her ugly face wore a smile of triumph.