“I should not be very likely to seek you from any motive but the desire to help you,” observed Lord Arleigh.

“It is not quite clear to me how I am to be helped,” returned the convict with a cynical smile; “but if you can do anything to get me out of this wretched place, please do.”

“I want you to answer me a few questions,” said Lord Arleigh—­“and very much depends on them.  To begin, tell me, were you innocent or guilty of the crime for which you are suffering?  Is your punishment deserved or not?”

“Well,” replied Henry Dornham, with a sullen frown, “I can just say this—­it is well there are strong bars between us; if there were not you would not live to ask such another question.”

“Will you answer me?” said Lord Arleigh, gently.

“No, I will not—­why should I?  You belong to a class I hate and detest—­a class of tyrants and oppressors.”

“Why should you?  I will tell you in a few words.  I am interested in the fate of your wife and daughter.”

“My what?” cried the convict, with a look of wonder.

“Your wife and daughter,” said Lord Arleigh.

“My daughter!” exclaimed the man.  “Good Heaven!  Oh, I see!  Well, go on.  You are interested in my wife and daughter—­what else?”

“There is one thing I can do which would not only be of material benefit to them, but would make your daughter very happy.  It cannot be done unless we can prove your innocence.”

“Poor little Madaline,” said the convict, quietly—­“poor, pretty little girl!”

Lord Arleigh’s whole soul revolted on hearing this man speak so of his fair, young wife.  That this man, with heavy iron bars separating him, as though he were a wild animal, from the rest of the world, should call his wife “poor, pretty little Madaline.”

“I would give,” said Lord Arleigh, “a great deal to find that your conviction had been a mistake.  I know circumstances of that kind will and do happen.  Tell me honestly, is there any, even the least probability, of finding out anything to your advantage?”

“Well,” replied Henry Dornham, “I am a ne’er-do-well by nature.  I was an idle boy, an idle youth, and an idle man.  I poached when I had a chance.  I lived on my wife’s earnings.  I went to the bad as deliberately as any one in the world did, but I do not remember that I ever told a willful lie.”

There passed through Lord Arleigh’s mind a wish that the Duchess of Hazlewood might have heard this avowal.

“I do not remember,” the man said again, “that I have ever told a willful lie in my life.  I will not begin now.  You asked me if I was really guilty.  Yes, I was—­guilty just as my judges pronounced me to be!”

For a few minutes Lord Arleigh was silent; the disappointment was almost greater than he could bear.  He had anticipated so much from this interview; and now by these deliberately spoken words his hopes were ended—­he would never be able to take his beautiful young wife to his heart and home.  The bitterness of the disappointment seemed almost greater than he could bear.  He tried to recover himself, while Henry Dornham went on: