receive the message for him."

"Will you go in with us, doctor?" The chaplain turned to his
companion.

"Presently. There is a man coming up the street I want to see."

The chaplain motioned her to follow him, casting a curious glance back
at her. They passed up into the long stone corridors, tier over tier,
with the lines of square iron doors, each with its slate dangling
outside, with a name scrawled on it. He stopped at one, opened it and
drew back, motioning her to enter.

Kitty caught sight of the damp wall of a cell, and stopped.

"Shall I go in with you?" seeing her shiver.

"No: Mr. Guinness might wish the message kept as private as possible."

"It is very probable. The prisoner is very ill, or you could not have
a private interview."

She went in, and the door closed behind her. It was a moment before
she could distinguish any object in the dimly lighted cell. Then she
saw the square window, the cobwebbed walls, and close at hand a narrow
pallet, on which lay a woman in a coarse and soiled night-dress.
She was tall and gaunt: one arm was thrown over her head, framing a
heavy-jawed, livid face, with dull black eyes fixed on Catharine.

"Who are you?" she said.