Marks. It was impossible to believe that a man who wasn't an absolute
fiend could--" I pulled up short in some slight embarrassment.

"But she is not a child now," remarked Sonia calmly. "According to the
paper she must be nineteen."

"Yes," I said, "I suppose people grow older even when I'm in prison."

"And she loves you--she must love you. Do you think any woman could
help loving a man who had done what you did for her?"

"Oh, I expect she has forgotten all about me long ago," I said with
a sudden bitterness. "People who go to prison can't expect to be
remembered--except by the police."

I had spoken recklessly, and even while the words were on my tongue a
vision of Joyce's honest blue eyes rose reproachfully in my mind. I
remembered the terrible heartbroken little note which she had sent me
after the trial, and then her other letter which I had received in
Dartmoor--almost more pitiful in its brave attempt to keep hope and
interest alive in my heart.

Sonia leaned forward, her hands clasped in her lap.

"I thought," she said slowly, "I thought that perhaps you wanted to go
to London in order to meet her."

I shook my head. "I am not quite so selfish as that. I have brought
her enough trouble and unhappiness already."