“I wrote it for you. But, let's see the prisoner. That had shut him up for a while. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. As she came in this morning she saw that the lamp was still burning in the study; so she stopped at the door.
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