He went on to describe his efforts to get free from Alcatrante. "And you were under the table in Arima's room," she exclaimed, when he had finished. "I was there; but I couldn't see you, Girl. And you seemed to doubt me." "To doubt you?" "Don't you remember? You said that no American had the papers; but you added, unless----" "Unless Walsh, the burglar, had played a trick on Poritol and held the true papers back. I went straight from Arima's to the jail and had another talk with Walsh. He convinced me that he knew nothing at all about the papers. He seemed to think that they were letters which Poritol wanted for his own purposes." "Then, you did not doubt me." Glad relief was in his voice. "I have never doubted you," she said, simply. There was silence. Only their breathing and the ticking of Orme's watch broke the stillness. "I don't believe that Alcatrante knew that this place was unventilated," she remarked at last. "No; and he didn't know that you were here." "He thinks that you will be released in the morning, and that you will think it wiser to make no charges. What do you suppose his conscience will say when he learns----" "Girl, I simply can't believe that there is no hope for us." "What possible chance is there?" Her voice was steady. "The clerks must all have gone by this time. We can't make ourselves heard." "Still, I feel as though I should be fighting with the door." "You can't open it." "But some one of the clerks going out may have seen that it was bolted. Wouldn't he have pushed the bolt back? I'm going to see." He groped to the door and tugged at the handle. The door, for all the effect his effort had on it, might have been a section of solid wall. "Come back," she called. He felt his way until his foot touched the coat. As he let himself down beside her, his hand brushed over her hair, and unconsciously she leaned toward him. He felt the pressure of her shoulder against his side, and the touch sent a thrill through him. He leaned back against the wall and stared into the blackness with eyes that saw only visions of the happiness that might have been. "We mustn't make any effort to break out," she said. "It is useless. And every time we move about and tug at the door, it makes us breathe that much faster." "Yes," he sighed, "I suppose we can only sit here and wait." "Do you know," she said softly, "I am wondering why our situation does not seem more terrible to me. It should, shouldn't it?" "I hardly think so," he replied. "The relative importance of our worldly affairs," she went on dreamily, "appears to change when one sees that they are all to stop at once. They recede into the background of the mind. What counts then is, oh, I don't want to think of it! My father--he----" Her shoulders shook for a moment under the stress of sudden grief, but she quickly regained her control. "There, now," she whispered, "I won't do that."