But he would not be turned aside. “Yes, you can, Dorothy, and you must. It is life and death with him now. Only this morning Forsyth told me it was all up with him. Think of a man being hanged for a thing that he didn’t do; think how awful it would be if you had to remember that you might have done something to prevent it, and didn’t! Think of--think of Isabel, Dorothy, and be a brave little sister of mercy, as you have always been to every one in trouble.” “Oh, don’t, _don’t_!” she pleaded pitifully. “Don’t say any more, Harry. You haven’t any idea of what you are asking me to do, but I--I’ll go. Can we do it now--right away--before I have to go home and face them all again?” Antrim made a quick dash for his hat and coat, and they were halfway to the jail before she spoke again. “Isn’t it a very dreadful thing for me to do?” she asked shamefacedly. “Do--do ladies ever go to see the prisoners?--alone, I mean.” “I don’t know; and you must not care, Dorothy--not for this once. I’ll go as far as the corridor with you and wait till you come out. You must just keep saying to yourself that it is life and death; and--and Isabel’s happiness,” he added softly. She caught the inspiration of his unselfishness, and answered it in kind. “You are very good and noble, Harry. I’ll remember; and I’ll try to do my part--as you are doing yours. Is this the place? Oh, what a terrible Castle of Despair!” CHAPTER XXXI A FEAST OF MINGLED CUPS BRANT was lying down when he heard the heavy step of the turnkey in the corridor; heard the heavy step and a lighter one, and the rustle of a woman’s dress. He made sure it was another of the cut-flower faddists who had lately been making his prison life a hot bath of vicarious shame, and sprang up with a muttered malediction comprehensive enough to include the entire procession of the sentimentalists. A moment later the key grated in the lock, the bolts clanked, and the door swung back. He stood transfixed for an instant, hardly daring to believe his eyes. Then the clamour and crash of the closing door brought him to his senses and he turned away and hid his face. Dorothy stood still, abashed at her own boldness and waiting timidly for some sign of recognition. When it was overlong in coming she plucked up courage and went to him. “Haven’t you a word of welcome for me, Mr. Brant?” she asked softly. “Don’t ask me. What can I say? Why did you come?” “Because you made me,” she said simply. “You wouldn’t listen to any of the others, you know; and--and--but you will listen to me. You must.” He turned to face her, and even in the dim half-light of the cell she could see that he was nerving himself for a struggle. “Please sit down,” he said, pointing to the single chair. “I think I know what you have come to say, but it isn’t any use--indeed, it is not.” She ignored the pointing and the invitation, and leaned against the wall within arm’s reach of him.