The door swung open heavily. There was a narrow, clean little room
with a low camp bed, and under the barred window a table strewn with
sheets of paper. It was the Professor in his own clothes, writing
busily, with his back toward me. Perhaps he thought it was only
an attendant with food, or perhaps he didn't even hear the
interruption. I could hear his pen running busily. I might have
known you never would get any heroics out of that man! Trust him
to make the best of it!
"Lemon sole and a glass of sherry, please, James," said the
Professor over his shoulder, and the warder, who evidently had
joked with him before, broke into a cackle of laughter.
"A lady to see yer Lordship," he said.
The Professor turned round. His face went quite white. For the first
time in my experience of him he seemed to be at a loss for speech.
"Miss--Miss McGill," he stammered. "You _are_ the good Samaritan.
I'm doing the John Bunyan act, see? Writing in prison. I've really
started my book at last. And I find the fellows here know nothing
whatever about literature.
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