the terror of it? Her blue eyes continued to rest on the convict, a
young fellow of no more than one-and-twenty, of magnificent proportions,
but with face sodden and brutish. For his part he looked at her,
open-mouthed, with an expression of stupid surprise at the sight of the
figure so daintily and slenderly fashioned, at the tangles of bright
golden hair that seemed to have imprisoned some of the sunshine from
above.

"Well, I'm blowed!" he muttered hoarsely. "Where'd you come from? Looks
like one o' them bally Christmas dolls had dropped offen some counter in
Fleet Street and got in here by mistake!"

A mist sprang to the blue eyes; she held her white, pretty fingers tight
against her breast. "It must be terrible--here"--she said falteringly.

The convict laughed harshly. "Hell!" he said laconically.

The child trembled. "I'm sorry," she managed to say.

The fierce dark eyes stared at her. "What for?"

"Because--you have to stay here--"

"Well, I'm--" But this time he apparently found no adequate adjective.
"If this ain't the rummiest Christmas doll!"

She put out her hand. "Here's something for you, poor man," she said, as
steadily as she could. "It's my King George gold piece, date 1762, and
belonged to my father who wore it on his watch chain and who is dead.
Perhaps they'll let you buy something with it."