The wardress had gone back to the desk and her occupation, and the woman watched her wistfully. She was in contact with the world; had a husband perhaps, and children, outside these red walls. Mary Pinder had been cut off from life and human companionship for nearly twenty years. Outside the world rolled on; men had risen and fallen, there had been wars and periods of national rejoicing; but here, in this shadowy place, life had been grey, without relief, and even pain had become a monotony. She walked timidly towards the officer and sat down in a chair near her. The wardress stopped her work to smile encouragingly, and then laid down her pencil again. “I hope you’re going to forget this place, Mrs. Pinder?” The other shook her head. “I shouldn’t think it were possible--to forget,” she said. “It is life, most of the life I have known. I was eighteen when I came here first; twenty-three when I was transferred to Aylesbury, and thirty when I came back. I have little else to remember,” she said simply. The woman looked at her curiously. “You’re the only prisoner I’ve ever known that I had any faith in, Mrs. Pinder,” she said. Mary Pinder leant forward eagerly. “You believe that I was innocent?” And, when the woman nodded: “Thank you. I--I wish I had known that somebody believed that.” “I wish I had told you,” said the wardress briefly. Then, as the sound of a turning key came to her: “Here comes somebody who thinks you were innocent, at any rate,” she said, and rose to meet the governor. “All dressed and ready, eh?” said he cheerfully. “You’re a lucky woman! I wish to heaven I were free of this wretched place. But I am a prisoner here until I die!” It was a stock joke of his and the woman smiled, as he took her arm and paced with her along the hall. “Your friends will not be here until ten o’clock. I’ve just had a wire. They thought you’d rather leave after dark. Do you know where you’re going?” “I haven’t any idea,” she said. “The address I gave you will always find me.” And then, in a changed tone: “Doctor, I wasn’t dreaming that you told me about--about----” “That young lady who saw you? No, it is a most amazing coincidence. If I’d had any brains I should have known, the moment I saw how upset she was, that she was the girl with the branded arm.” “My daughter!” she breathed. “Oh God, how wonderful! How wonderful!” “They didn’t want to let you know. They were afraid of the effect it might have upon you. She’s a pretty girl.” “She’s lovely,” breathed Mary Pinder. “She’s lovely! And does she know?” He nodded.