"Well, it's not what you've been used to, of course. But hot." He put the water within her reach and drew aside, looking at her now and then. He was used to the pale faces and tears of women at that gate. "Though she's different from them as has friends here," he thought, silencing one or two noisy customers by a look. Presently he came up to her: "You're afeard to go in there alone, young lady?"
"Yes, I am. What shall I do?"
"I thought as much. Yonder comes the chaplain. I'll speak to him," going to meet two gentlemen who crossed the street.
"You wished to see a prisoner?" one of them said, coming up to her.
Kitty was herself again. She stood up and bowed with her old-fashioned, grave politeness: "I do not know. It was this that brought me here," handing him the telegram.
"Ah? I remember," glancing at it. "Number 243 sent it, you recollect?" to his companion. "But this is addressed to Hugh Guinness?" turning inquiringly to Kitty.
"I am a—a member of his family. He was not at home, and I came to receive the message for him."
"Will you go in with us, doctor?" The chaplain turned to his companion.
"Presently. There is a man coming up the street I want to see."
The chaplain motioned her to follow him, casting a curious glance back at her. They passed up into the long stone corridors, tier over tier, with the lines of square iron doors, each with its slate dangling outside, with a name scrawled on it. He stopped at one, opened it and drew back, motioning her to enter.