The
jailer stopped at the end of a long passageway. He spun the
clicking dial, while I waited in a kind of horror. I think I
expected to see the Professor with shaved head (they couldn't
shave much off his head, poor lamb!) and striped canvas suit,
and a ball and chain on his ankle.
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.
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