But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. When the turnkey, next morning, stepp'd into his room, The sight of the hole in the wall struck him dumb; The sheriff's black bracelets lay strewn on the ground, But the lad that had worn 'em could nowhere be found. ‘Dieu du ciel, for what do you take me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he threw at her. Gerald’s thoughts raced as he reached out supporting hands and murmured meaningless phrases to soothe. Why hadn't he admitted that he recognized the photograph? What instinct had impelled him swiftly to assume his Oriental mask? "Why?" asked O'Higgins. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command.
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