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“If you are waiting to see Quinn,” Bronson said, abruptly, “he will come out of that upper gate, the green one with the iron spikes over it.”

The woman stood motionless, and looked at him doubtfully. She was quite young and pretty, but her face was drawn and wearied-looking, as though she were a convalescent or one who was in trouble. She was of the working class.

“I am waiting for him myself,” Bronson said, to reassure her.

“Are you?” the girl answered, vaguely. “Did you try to see him?” She did not wait for an answer, but went on, nervously: “They wouldn’t let me see him. I have been here since noon. I thought maybe he might get out before that, and I’d be too late. You are sure that is the gate, are you? Some of them told me there was another, and I was afraid I’d miss him. I’ve waited so long,” she added. Then she asked, “You’re a friend of his, ain’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Bronson said. “I am waiting to give him some money.”

“Yes? I have some money, too,” the girl said, slowly. “Not much.” Then she looked at Bronson eagerly and with a touch of suspicion, and took a step backward. “You’re no friend of hern, are you?” she asked, sharply.

“Her? Whom do you mean?” asked Bronson.

But Gallegher interrupted him. “Certainly not,” he said. “Of course not.”

The girl gave a satisfied nod, and then turned to retrace her steps over the beat she had laid out for herself.

“Whom do you think she means?” asked Bronson, in a whisper.

“His wife, I suppose,” Gallegher answered, impatiently.

The girl came back, as if finding some comfort in their presence. “She’s inside now,” with a nod of her head towards the prison. “Her and her mother. They come in a cab,” she added, as if that circumstance made it a little harder to bear. “And when I asked if I could see him, the man at the gate said he had orders not. I suppose she gave him them orders. Don’t you think so?” She did not wait for a reply, but went on as though she had been watching alone so long that it was a relief to speak to some one. “How much money have you got?” she asked.

Bronson told her.

“Fifty-five dollars!” The girl laughed, sadly. “I only got fifteen dollars. That ain’t much, is it? That’s all I could make–I’ve been sick–that and the fifteen I sent the paper.”

“Was it you that–did you send any money to a paper?” asked Bronson.

“Yes; I sent fifteen dollars. I thought maybe I wouldn’t get to speak to him if she came out with him, and I wanted him to have the money, so I sent it to the paper, and asked them to see he got it. I give it under three names: I give my initials, and ‘Cash,’ and just my name– ‘Mary.’ I wanted him to know it was me give it. I suppose they’ll send it all right. Fifteen dollars don’t look like much against fifty-five dollars, does it?” She took a small roll of bills from her pocket and smiled down at them. Her hands were bare, and Bronson saw that they were chapped and rough. She rubbed them one over the other, and smiled at him wearily.

Bronson could not place her in the story he was about to write; it was a new and unlooked-for element, and one that promised to be of moment. He took the roll of bills from his pocket and handed them to her. “You might as well give him this too,” he said. “I will be here until he comes out, and it makes no difference who gives him the money, so long as he gets it.”

The girl smiled confusedly. The show of confidence seemed to please her. But she said, “No, I’d rather not. You see, it isn’t mine, and I did work for this,” holding out her own roll of money. She looked up at him steadily, and paused for a moment, and then said, almost defiantly, “Do you know who I am?”