The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. ’ ‘I do not lie to you now,’ she said, near frantic at the thought of losing him. ‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. As he gazed down into the courts of the prison, he could not help shuddering, lest a false step might precipitate him below. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me. “We’ve made out but we haven’t had sex.
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