"I suppose it is like all such prisons; but think what it must be for an innocent man to be caged there with a lot of desperate criminals, the scum of the earth. What must it be for such a man as Hector Woodridge, cultured, refined, an army man, well-bred—and on the top of it all the knowledge that the disgrace killed his father. It would drive me mad."
"And me too," she said. "You say he is there still?"
"Yes; there is no chance of his escaping. I wish he could."
"A prisoner escaped when I was at Torquay. I saw it in the local paper," she said.
"So did I; the fellow had a terrible fight with a bloodhound and strangled it. A desperate man has desperate strength," he said.
"I met an old boatman named Brack there; he told me the man must be dead."
"No doubt; fell down a disused mine, or drowned himself, poor devil. I don't wonder at it," he said.
"I wonder how the woman feels about it?" she said in a low voice. "She must suffer, her conscience must trouble her, in a way her life must be as hard to bear as his."
"That depends on the woman," he said. "I believe she can prove his innocence; something tells me she can; his brother believes it too. If this be so, she ought to speak and save him, no matter at what cost to herself."
"Do you think she will?"