Then he took me out to Monteaux, on a motor. While this was going on, Jack suddenly made a movement which attracted the turnkey's attention; and during that interval the old man slipped some articles wrapped in a handkerchief into Bess's hands, who instantly secreted them in her bosom. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. She lied.
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