“It may touch some human chord in her.”
“I never thought of that,” said John.
“Well, think of it. Think of it as much as you can.”
“'You may as well use question with the wolf,'” growled John.
“I don't believe it,” said Herold. “Anyhow, try kindness.”
“Of course I 'm going to do so,” said John, with the impatience he usually manifested when accepting a new point of view from Herold. “You don't suppose I'm going to stand outside with a club!”
On the appointed day he waited, with a four-wheeled cab, by the prison gate. The early morning sunshine of midsummer flooded the world with pale glory, its magic even softening the grim, forbidding walls. A light southwest wind brought the pure scents of the down from many a sleeping garden and woodland far away. The quiet earth sang its innocence, for wickedness was not yet abroad to scream down the song. Even John Risca, anti-sentimentalist, was stirred. What sweeter welcome, what gladder message of hope, could greet one issuing into the upper air from the gloomy depths of Hades? How could such a one help catching at her breath for joy?
The gate swung open, casting a shadow in the small yard beyond, and in the middle of the shadow a black, unjoyous figure stood for a moment irresolute. Then she slowly came out into sunshine and freedom. She was ashen-coloured, thin-lipped, and not a gleam of pleasure lit her eyes as they rested with hard remorselessness on the man who advanced with outstretched hand to meet her. Of the hand she took no notice.
“Is this my cab?”
“Yes,” said John.