A uniformed officer in an adjoining room opened himself like a kind of long jack-knife, rose from the bench where he had been reclining and stood at the walnut rail in front of his superior, awaiting orders. The lieutenant took a key from the rack at his side and handed it to Norcross.
“This lady wants to see No. 3. Show her down.”
The officer bowed respectfully and led the way down a flight of stone steps into what at first appeared to be a sort of cellar, with grated windows near the ceiling on one side and a row of iron-barred doors on the other.
“There,” said the officer, pointing.
Charity paused a moment and pressed her hand against her heart; for a moment she could not have spoken, it beat so fiercely. Then she advanced across the brick floor, and standing by the door of Cell No. 3, looked in through the bars.
At first she could see nothing, but, as her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, she could distinguish at one side a narrow iron bed, and lying motionless upon it, his head buried in his arms, a crumpled, stained, wretched figure—yes, Tom!
The rustle of the girl’s dress fell upon his ear. He raised his head slightly, recognized the sound, turned away again without looking her in the face, and shook with such a tempest of sobs that Charity trembled and could not speak the grave, deliberate words she had prepared on the way.
“Landlord, fill the flowing bowl!”
sang some poor creature shrilly, two or three doors away. How Charity remembered all these things afterward! While the officer stepped aside to quiet the noisy prisoner she forced herself at last to speak.