In fifteen minutes I should be due upon the stage.
The girl was very lovely. Yes, lovely was the right word for her--lovely
and lovable. She was like a fresh rose, with the morning dew of youth on
its petals--a rose that had budded and was beginning to bloom in a fair
garden, far out of reach of ugly weeds. I envied her, for I felt how
different her sweet, girl's life had been from my stormy if sometimes
brilliant career.
"Mr. Dundas sent you to me?" I asked. "When did you see him? Surely
not--since--"
"This afternoon," she answered quietly, in a pretty, un-English sounding
voice, with a soft little drawl of the South in it. "I went to see him.
They gave us five minutes. A warder was there; but speaking quickly in
Spanish, just a few words, he--Mr. Dundas--managed to tell me a thing he
wished me to do. He said it meant more than his life, so I did it; for
we have been friends, and just now he's helpless. The warder was angry,
and stopped our conversation at once, though the five minutes weren't
ended. But I understood. Mr. Dundas said there wasn't a moment to lose."
"Yet that was in the afternoon, and you only come to me at this hour!" I
exclaimed.
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