On the third day, at sunset, he sent for the deputy.
"Deputy," said the old man, clutching his coat-sleeve pitifully through the bars, "I—my daughter hasn't been here to-day."
"I know," answered the other. "I've missed her, too."
"She must be ill," the old man said. "Is there any way of finding out? I have some money with me...."
They sent a messenger to Elinor's room; but the messenger returned with the information that she was not in. All that night Ilingsworth paced his narrow cell; but with the morning sun came new hopes.
"She'll be here to-day," he assured himself.
But she didn't come that day either. When his meals were brought to him he refused to eat. And again all that night he paced his cell. He was inconsolable.
Five more days passed without Ilingsworth having received word from his daughter, but then, just when it seemed that he could bear the suspense no longer, the deputy came to him and said:
"There's a lady downstairs who knows your daughter. She's been here every day, came just to see her. She wants to help—wants her address. Shall I give it to her?"
"Yes, yes," exclaimed the old man, eagerly.