Chapter V: Part 5

After he had satisfied himself that his rifle was capable of carrying out his plan he threw it over his shoulder, crossed the valley, and took down the target, all bullet-marked, and trudged back to his cottage. He put his rifle in a cupboard and took out an older weapon, which he stacked in the porch. This was part of his plan also. He had bought the newer rifle in London some days previously, and had brought it home after dark. It was of different bore from his old piece, which everybody in the neighbourhood knew he possessed.

He brought out some pieces of wood, and a saw and hammer and nails. He measured the pieces carefully, and was busy at the work of carpentry when he heard a footfall approaching. He looked up. Professor Roche was coming up the gravel path to his cottage.

"I heard your gun go off over by the valley, Lyons," said the professor. "Shooting at anything?"

"It's them poachers, sir," replied Lyons, with an upward glance from under his shaggy brows. "It wasn't my gun that went off. Here it is here, loaded up, but I never see the poachers or I'd fire."

"Not at them, I hope, Lyons."

"No, sir, above their heads, just to give 'em a fright. They've been poaching over by the Wishing Chair."

"What are they after this time, birds or hares?"

"Anything they can get, sir."

"I'd have got the police to help you, Lyons, if you weren't against it----"

"Never mind the police, sir. I can manage. When are we goin' over to continue the excavations?"

"I was hoping to go to-day."

"Make it to-morrow, sir. I'll spend the day clearin' out the poachers, and we won't be disturbed to-morrow."

"All right, Lyons."

The professor was looking dreamily at the pieces of wood which Lyons was fitting together carefully into a curious shape.

"What's that you are making, Lyons?"

"A cradle, sir."

"A cradle?"

"Yes, for my gun. The fore-end has warped through being laid on the damp ground, and that affects the barrel. I'm making a cradle so I can keep it off the ground when I'm resting, while I watch for poachers."

The professor nodded and walked away slowly, his head bent and his hands behind his back. Lyons was well aware that his explanation had not been followed, for the professor was always thinking of his specimens and had little interest in anything else.

When he had gone, Lyons bent over his task and worked fast. The cradle was finished by midday, and he went indoors to prepare his dinner. When dinner was ready he laid it on the table and piled a handful of nuts on a plate beside it. Then he stepped into his inner room and brought out a box two feet long by one foot high. He laid the box on the floor and shut his front door. When he sat down at the table he flicked open the lid of the box. A squirrel jumped out.

"Hullo, Brownie," said Lyons. "I reckon I've starved you about enough for the job. Keep away from that plate of nuts."

The squirrel had leaped to the table, but a blow from the hand of the gamekeeper sent it flying to the floor. It ran about the place, poking into corners, mounting the chairs, and always turning its little, sparkling eyes towards the table where the nuts were piled temptingly.

Robert Lyons ate his dinner slowly, watching the squirrel all the time. Every time it came on the table he threw it off. When it jumped on his knee and poked its head upward towards his plate he allowed it to sniff the dinner; but when it tried to steal a morsel he threw it to the floor. This went on for quite a long time.

After dinner, Lyons rose and put the remains of his dinner and the plate of nuts into a cupboard, taking one or two loose nuts in his hand. With these he tempted the squirrel repeatedly, making it believe that he was giving it one, and drawing away the prize when the animal ventured to seize it.

There was something pathetic in the small eyes of the squirrel when this was repeated several times. At last Lyons changed his method of teasing the hungry thing. He tied a nut to a piece of string and let it hang from the table. Every time the squirrel dashed for it he drew it away. Finally he took the squirrel and put it into his capacious coat pocket, lifted his new gun and cradle, and went out, locking the door behind him.

He walked straight down the valley until he came to a spot opposite the Wishing Chair. Near it was a large mound of earth which had been newly dug up. The professor had been making excavations in search of fossils, Lyons doing the digging while the savant searched.

Robert Lyons went straight to the tree from which he had fired the shot in the morning. He fitted the cradle he had made into the fork, hammered it down with a few nails, laid his rifle in the cradle, and sighted it for the Wishing Chair.

Next he took a nut from his pocket, and tied it with a piece of twine to the trigger of the gun so that it dangled in the desired position. He then brought the squirrel out, and let it see the nut and play with it; but when the little animal made any attempt to bite it, Lyons drew it out of reach. He held the squirrel in his hands all this time.

After some time he descended the slope into the valley and climbed to the Wishing Chair. He sat down in the stone seat. Once more he brought the squirrel out of his pocket. But this time he did not tease it. He set it on the ground and let it go. As soon as it bounded off he ran after it. He knew where it was going.

The squirrel led him back to the spot where he had left his rifle. When he arrived, the animal was seated on its haunches nibbling at a nut, and the loop which dangled from the trigger of the gun was empty. Lyons examined the rifle. The spring had been released. He tested the sights without touching the weapon. The aim was truly laid for the Wishing Chair.

He took another nut from his pocket, offering it to the brown squirrel. It came timidly, but the gamekeeper did not tease any more. He let the squirrel take the nut and eat it, as he held it in the crook of his arm. When it was finished with the nut, he returned it to his pocket and went back home. He left the rifle in the cradle fastened to the tree-fork.

It had taken Robert Lyons a week to train the squirrel to run across the valley from the Wishing Chair to the spot where the rifle was now placed; and he had accomplished the training by the method which is the first to break-in any animal--starvation. Who would ever suspect such a death-trap?

Robert Lyons was up early next morning to meet his employer. The latter came down to the cottage soon after breakfast, and was pleased to see that the gamekeeper had every tool in readiness for their excavations. They proceeded to the site at once.

Lyons did not talk as they marched ahead. The morning was dull, the sky was heaped with cumulus clouds, the wind was rising.

"I'm afraid it isn't too promising for work, Lyons," said the professor as they descended into the valley. "If it rains, we can return and arrange some specimens indoors."

"We'll see," replied Lyons, grimly smiling to himself. "This is the very weather for poachers."

"Do you think they'll be about?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

They reached the Wishing Chair on the top of the hill, and Lyons threw down his tools. The professor sat down on the stone seat, as was his habit, and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his face. It had been a stiff climb up the slope.

Lyons stepped behind the Wishing Chair, pretending to look at the landscape beyond; but his hands fumbled about his waist. In a moment he had uncoiled a length of thin rope, at the end of which was a running noose. Before the innocent professor was aware, the noose was thrown over his shoulders and the gamekeeper circled him twice, tying him to the stone seat. Professor Roche was a prisoner.

He tried to rise, shouting to Lyons to loosen the rope, shouting indignant orders, but Lyons did not heed his employer's words. His face had become grim and dark, and his jaws were set as if clamped by iron braces.

"If you howl, I'll gag you," he said viciously. "It's time we had a talk. You're going to sign this first."

He shoved under the bewildered professor's nose the typewritten declaration which the dealer had given him.

"What's all this? What's the meaning of this treatment, Lyons? I cannot see what is written on the paper----"

"I'll read it to you."

Robert Lyons read it, slowly and distinctly. It was to the effect that the Glory of Coram, being the property of Professor Roche, was being offered for sale by that person, who was willing to take a certain sum for it.

In vain the professor protested that this was robbery with violence; the look in the grey eyes of the gamekeeper proved that both men were in a new situation just then. Their past knowledge of each other was gone for ever, and in its place was something terrible and menacing. The professor sat very still, staring across the valley, trying to convince himself that he was not dreaming. He found out soon enough. Lyons hit him savagely in the face.

"Sign!" he cried.

"I haven't a pen."

"But I have. It is your own fountain one. I brought it on purpose."

"I missed it a week ago," murmured the professor thoughtfully. "Is it only the Glory of Coram you wish, Lyons?"

"Is there anything more you'd like to give me?" sneered Lyons. "I've had a few things out of the cases lately, but you haven't missed 'em."

"You have been stealing my goods?"

"And selling 'em, professor. When I sell the shell I'll have as much money as I need."

"But if I sign this it is still possible that you will repent it. The money will be paid into my bank----"

"It won't. It will be paid into my hand. I've made all that secure. It will be paid by to-night."

"But you will be caught as soon as I give the alarm!"

"You will not give an alarm."

"No?"

"You will be dead. They'll find you to-morrow, maybe. Who is to prove that poachers haven't been here to-day?"

A shiver passed through the professor's frame. He raised his head and looked about for aid. All was bare, wild country, the nearest house being his own home, over two miles off. Up the valley the rising wind came steadily, increasing in volume every minute. The huge clouds above were driving from the southwest. That meant rain.

"Do you intend to kill me?" he asked, after a pause. There was a hint of the scholar's curiosity in his question.

"I do."

"Might I ask how?"

"Since it won't help you, I'll explain," said Lyons, "but you got to sign that slip first."

The professor gravely took the pen and signed. His hand shook a little, and the paper fluttered on his knee, but his face was serene as he handed the sheet back to Lyons. The latter held the signature to the wind until it was dry, then pushed it into his inside pocket. With his eyes on Professor Roche, he brought the squirrel from his coat pocket and held it aloft.

"This little fellow is going to kill you," he said. "He's the one who is going to clear away every clue. Ain't you, Brownie?"

"This is very curious," said Professor Roche. "How is he going to do it?"

"This way. Over the valley, in that clump of trees, is a rifle, loaded and laid straight for your head. It is five hundred yards away. The bullet in that rifle is a .303, which will kill at a much greater distance. Hanging from the trigger is a nut. This squirrel is going to snatch that nut. You won't have any pain, I assure you. I've had a target often enough where your head is."

"Then you will hang," said the professor.

"I won't. The rifle will be buried in the valley within an hour of it being fired. My own gun isn't a .303. Everybody in the house knows that you and I are working at these excavations. Our trail shows we came here. I have worked it all out."

The wind was coming in gusts, so that Lyons, who was standing to leeward, had to bend forward to hear the professor's reply to his boast. To his surprise, the professor merely wrinkled his brows and bent his head. Lyons placed the squirrel on the ground ready to let him free. Professor Roche's voice spoke.

"Have you laid the rifle true for me, Lyons?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"True and straight, as I have laid it every day for a week. You can't escape the bullet."

He threw the squirrel from him with a savage laugh.

"Say your prayers!" he cried. "Nothing can save you now!"

The professor's eyes were on the disappearing squirrel, now bounding towards the clump of trees in which the gun-trap was hidden.

"Lyons," he said, "I have no prayers to say, but since you bound me in this natural Wishing Chair I have been wishing--and thinking. I believe my wish will come true. Come nearer to me. The wind makes it difficult to talk."

Lyons moved from the windward to the leeward side of the chair. He admired the gameness of the old professor.

"What is it you want to say?" he asked. "Hurry! The rifle will go off any moment."

"One of the things I have studied, Lyons, is the question of velocity. We have been having good weather of late----"

"What are you talking about?" roared Lyons. "Gone mad, eh?"

"Not quite, Lyons. Stand a little nearer and listen closely. I have had my wish. The wind is very strong. Hark!"

From the clump of trees across the valley the crack of a rifle broke out, and a tiny puff of smoke arose swiftly. Robert Lyons jumped back from the Wishing Chair, but as he leapt something smote him in the chest and stretched him unconscious on the ground.

Professor Roche was able to undo the fastenings that bound him, and he went for the police, who took Lyons to hospital. He has just been tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. It was indeed a wonder he was not killed by the bullet he intended for the professor.

You see, the wind always takes a bullet off the target at five hundred yards' range. Three feet at that distance is an average wind allowance.

Robert Lyons had forgotten the rising wind.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL

As the Governor finished his seventh story, the visitor shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the window, where the fog was swirling up against the glass.

"I hope you do not find it too cold," said the Governor politely. "Shall I turn up the gas stove to its full capacity? It is rather a large stove, but we can regulate it----"

"I find it warm enough, thank you," interrupted the visitor. "I was merely taking note that the fog is becoming denser than ever."

"Naturally," agreed the Governor, "you are interested in the fog, for reasons we shall not discuss; and mention of fog reminds me that in my eighth cell is one who relied on just a similar density of atmosphere to escape from this very prison. He has just been sentenced to an additional term for that escapade."

"Then you admit that it is possible to escape from your prison?" inquired the visitor quickly, eager to make a point.

"It is possible to do almost anything, but every action has its consequences. We seldom escape the consequences after we have committed the act. If a prisoner behaves himself and gives the impression that he is willing to accept the punishment which the law has given him, we do not make his punishment more of a torture than we can help. In other words, we give prisoners some slight benefits, some privileges. These help to mould their characters. But Harry Sarlon, I am afraid, took advantage of the privileges given him. As there is an element of a certain kind of humour in his case I am sure you will be interested to hear of his case. The fog makes it definitely apposite."

The Governor then proceeded:

* * * * *

Harry Sarlon had broken out of prison quite easily. He stood bracing himself against the rough wall of the archway, knowing that he was being sought, knowing that the warders were on his trail.

At his feet were a paint-pot and two brushes, the materials with which he had been working when he escaped. His convict dress was hidden by a loose smock which, though prison property, was a disguise for his prison clothes. In his right hand he held a heavy stone which he had picked up from the ground.

The fog swirled past him, thick and heavy; so thick that he could not see objects a few yards away. It was because of the fog that he had escaped.

The scrape of a foot on the ground sounded near his hiding-place. A man's form appeared in the strange gloom, woolly and indistinct. A lantern, blurred and ruddy-yellow, swung slowly to and fro.

"Sarlon, you had better surrender if you are there! You can't get away!"

The voice was a challenge, besides being an order. It was the voice of Warder Tully, the man of all his guards whom Sarlon hated and feared most.

For just one moment Sarlon hesitated. He felt that the warder was in the act of sounding his whistle. He heard the barking of a dog some distance off. The lantern moved towards him. Then Sarlon leaped.

The warder had no chance, for Sarlon was upon him like a panther. He bore Tully to the ground, hitting him with the stone. Tully was knocked unconscious and lay still.

It is possible, with imagination, to appreciate the wild, passionate desire for freedom that urged the convict to attack. The discipline and strict regulations of a place of detention arouse, in some natures, a ferocity against restraint which at times becomes ungovernable. There are men in prisons who can never be trusted beyond the ordinary routine. But Sarlon had seen to it that he was not regarded as of that type. He had deliberately suppressed his rebellion in order to make his escape. Therefore it was all the harder for him to admit defeat when challenged at that moment. He was in the full flush of belief in his ability to escape from Mincester gaol.

From the beginning of his term he had stifled his resentment, his hatred of prison and gaolers. He had done this to outwit them. This shows that he was a man of great self-control, yet he could not control his criminal leanings; a strange paradox. He could control himself in order to retaliate in time; there was something in him of the nature of the cat tribe. A tiger can lie still, waiting to catch its prey. Caged, it cannot keep passive.

Burglar, crook, law-breaker, he had run the whole gamut of crime with the exception of the capital charge. And now that he had visited his vengeance on Warder Tully he was aware that he must run.

By trade Sarlon was a house painter. He had attained to the position of a first-class convict because of his good behaviour. He had given no trouble at all, and had seemed to accept his punishment as the inevitable result of his lawless acts. As a result of this good behaviour and in an endeavour to reclaim him as a useful member of the community, he had been allowed to use his trade abilities. He had, in short, with another man, been put to the job of painting the windows of some outbuildings. This suited him very well. From the top of his ladder he had a view of the world beyond the prison. There is an old parish church, as you may have noticed, not very far off, on the steeple of which workmen were then engaged in repairs. The steeple was shored up by beams that slanted from the ground almost to the top; and, at stages, scaffolding framed the square tower in regular platforms. Sarlon knew that these workmen were engaged in tearing out the inside of the tower preparatory to re-buttressing it. This work was but one of the instances where local authorities were attempting to preserve the relics of England for future generations.

Sarlon had seen this work, and the sight helped him to make his plans. Only one thing was needed to obscure his escape. That one thing was night--or fog. He could not escape during the night, so he hoped for fog. There is a saying that the Devil looks after his own. The fog came.

The fog had swept down from the north suddenly, and, from the top of his ladder, Sarlon had watched it coming. This district is liable to get fogs at certain times of the year, as is well known. When the foremost fringe of the mist touched the prison wall and floated into the yard, the warders sounded the signal to stop work. Sarlon at first pretended not to hear; then, when he could keep up the pretence no longer without arousing suspicion, he acted as slowly as possible.

He came down the ladder, leaving his paint-pot on a window-ledge. He had to go back for it. This time he left a brush on the window-sill. He had to climb again for the brush. He was playing for time. The warders urged him to hurry, all unsuspecting his motive.

By this time all was indistinct and shadowy in the yard, and the fog was getting thicker every minute. When he descended the second time everything was in his favour. The yard was dense with mist. The fog had come quickly, as fogs generally come in marshy districts. Sarlon heard the other convicts being marshalled, though he could no longer see them. He saw a warder waiting for him at the foot of the ladder. With a quick movement he kicked the warder in the chest, sending him sprawling; then he took the ladder in his muscular hands, rushed across the yard with it, flung it against the wall and swarmed to the top.

He was astride the wall when the warder he had knocked down appeared below him. Sarlon kicked the ladder away and heard the warder's cry of alarm as he fell. Sarlon jumped to the other side of the wall. He was outside the prison.

His paint-pot, which was fastened to the top rung of the ladder by a hook, had fallen beside him. He picked it up as he started his flight. His paint-brushes were in his pocket. Why did Harry Sarlon take the paint-pot and his paint-brushes with him? All part of his scheme. If he met any civilians he could easily pretend that he was merely a painter on his way home. He threw away his prison cap. Who was to know that a convict had been using paints? By the time the circumstances of his flight were known to the public he reckoned he would be safe.

He ran through the fog until he reached the canal, which was to be his guide-rope. It would lead him towards the centre of the city and the place where he wanted to hide. He waded into the cold, muddy water which reached to his waist, and as he waded he held his smock high so that it would not be soaked, for it was his disguise. Climbing back to the bank, he ran on until he reached the rear of the parish church. He scaled the wall of the cemetery and was crawling among the tombstones when he heard a sound and saw a lantern moving towards him. Someone was on his trail.

Sarlon crouched behind a tombstone and waited. He saw the lantern pass in the fog and disappear. He wondered, in a moment of terrific concentration, if all his efforts were to be frustrated. The minutes passed. From somewhere to the right he heard another sound that set his teeth on edge. This was the baying of a hound.

Sarlon knew where the dog was at that moment, and he knew the dog was on his track. Two dogs are kept in this prison, in a yard shut off from the sight of every inmate; but every prisoner knows that these dogs are kept should an escape be made. I ought to say the idea of the dogs was mine.

Every day the dogs are exercised by the warders; and it was to throw the dogs off the scent that Sarlon had entered the canal. He argued that if he threw them off until he was deep in the city he would be safe. But, on the other hand, there was the fact that the very scent the dogs were following was his disguise. The dogs were following the smell of the paint which clung to his boots, his smock, his clothes. He dared not remain behind the tombstone, so he crept out and found the shelter of the archway. It was when he was here that the lantern came out of the mist again and the voice of Tully challenged him. There was nothing left for Sarlon except to surrender or attack. He clamoured for liberty; so he attacked. The dogs were not with Tully.

Sarlon found some satisfaction in attacking Tully. The latter was the one warder on the staff who could not be bluffed or deceived. He was the warder who had tried to prevent Sarlon from escaping by the ladder. He had rushed out, before the dogs had been loosed, to search on his own. Finding that the dogs took the road to the canal, Tully had struck away from it.

It was like Tully to argue that Sarlon had not crossed the canal and made for the open country, because Tully was the clearest-headed warder of the staff, the most relentless in pursuit as he was the most suspicious in his daily dealings with prisoners. No convict ever asked a favour, or made a request, which Tully did not suspect; he had acquired the habit of disbelieving every plea, every complaint! he was always on the alert to suspect excuses to evade rules. His duty became a sort of perpetual query mark. He was the most feared, as well as the most hated, warder.

He was as remorseless as iron and as merciless as logic. If a prisoner went sick he treated it as a feigned ruse until he saw the man collapse. He even regarded the doctor's examinations of prisoners as too gentle and as erring on the side of leniency. He grudged the hospital diet which patients were given. To his mind a convict was no longer a man but a number--a number which still constantly strove to evade punishment. There was no pity in Tully. He was incapable of compassion. But he believed he was just. His duties were, to him, part of a large organisation for the protection of organised society. "Prisoners," he once said to a Commission which sat to gather evidence on crime and criminals, "are the weeds in God's garden. Prison is the refuse heap of that garden." He took his work seriously, as became a grave and unimaginative nature.

Harry Sarlon in many ways justified Tully's words. His idea of freedom was to do as he liked--selfish to the core--without any sense of shame. His idea of law was that which restricted his raids on civilisation. But prison had shown him that to do as he liked he had to blind the law and hoodwink it when he could. To escape from prison was, to him, a duty to himself, any means justifying the end. To trick the authorities, to lie to them, to deceive them, was merely his way of "getting his own back." Rules and restrictions were a challenge to him. He had no sense of honour. He would have killed Tully with as little compunction as he would have told a lie or trod on a worm.

A mutual mistrust and antagonism had always existed between the two when they came into contact. It was the clash of opposites.

As he stood in the archway looking at the fallen man, Harry Sarlon, thinking he had killed Tully, was glad Tully was out of his way; but the baying of a dog came to his ears, and he knew that he must act quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dog, or dogs, found his trail again. Tully, he was aware, had taken a short cut ahead, and the dogs would come too. Quick as thought, Sarlon stripped off his smock and threw it beside his paint-pot and brushes. He had no use for these things now.

He took off his prison clothes also and left them in a heap beside his smock. He stripped the uniform off the warder, who had been so battered by the stone that he had every appearance of being dead, and found to his delight that there was some money in the warder's pockets.

He extinguished the lantern, clapped the warder's cap on his head, and, seizing the warder by the heels, dragged him into the cemetery over the heaps of earth. He knew where he was going and what he intended to do.

From his ladder in the prison yard he had observed the deep excavations that had been made around the tower of the old church; deep holes had been dug for the shoring timbers, and much of the foundations of the building had been exposed. Into one of these excavations Sarlon threw the warder. He intended to bury the man, and he had already started with hands and feet to push earth into the trench when once more he heard the baying of the hound. He dared not finish his ghoulish work. The other warders were on his trail and were coming fast. Sarlon leaped to his feet, and ran towards the church tower.

He had to go right round the tower before he found an entrance, and he gave a queer little laugh as he looked above the Gothic stone that frowned over the porch. It reminded him of the entrance to the prison he had just left; the stone was the same grey colour, the heavy doorway was the same design, the builders having evidently erected both from similar plans. It seemed funny to Sarlon that a church and a prison should be of the same construction--the one a sanctuary, the other a tomb to his hopes.

He found himself in a wide, open space beyond the doorway, and knew that he was at the base of the tower. It took him some time to find the ladder leading aloft, and when he climbed up to the top he was aware that he was on the first scaffold. He walked carefully round the narrow platform on the outside of the square tower and came upon another ladder. It was the way to the second scaffold higher up. He climbed slowly and carefully, found the third scaffolding and mounted it also, to find a fourth. This brought him to the opening into the belfry. He crawled through the window and lay on the beams that were laid under the huge bell. Keeping his head out of the window he looked below, watching and listening.

The indistinct, muffled voices of men came up to him. The fog was too thick for him to see anything. He lay still, listening, wondering if his pursuers would mount the scaffolding. Half an hour passed. The voices were no longer heard. His enemies had gone.

Lying up there, Harry Sarlon began to take stock of his position and prospects. He guessed that it was now late in the evening. The workmen who were engaged on the tower had ceased work with the coming of the fog, so that he would be safe from their interference until the morning. But he did not intend to wait until the morning, for the fog might then be cleared off and that would make his escape all the more difficult. He must get away as soon as possible. The money he had taken from Tully's pockets supplied the means if only he could get to the railway station.

"It's got to be done soon," he muttered. "If I stay here the town will be raised against me. They may have offered a reward by now for my capture, but I'll beat 'em with a little bluff."

He descended slowly to the ground and walked out into the roadway. The fog was still very thick, so that it was almost impossible to see more than a yard or two, but while this was a benefit to Sarlon it was also a drawback. He did not know the town very well, and he realised the danger of losing his way. Adjusting his cap and dusting down his clothes he marched forward.

People passed him like ghosts, silent and mysterious. He walked on until he observed the glimmering lights of shops. The smell of a cookshop's wares made him pause. He was hungry. He opened the door and stepped into the shop.

It was a small place, such a one as is used by workmen; a few customers were seated at tables beyond the counter, and a stout man, in soiled apron and shirt-sleeves, was frying potatoes on a coke fire.

Sarlon would have enjoyed nothing so much as to sit at a table and order a meal, but he dared not risk this, even if he was dressed in warder's uniform. He contented himself with buying several sandwiches, and the stout man leaned over the counter confidentially as he wrapped the food up.

"Say, mate, is it true one of your fellows has got away in the fog? A policeman tipped me off not long ago, but no sane convict would ever come in here, now, would he, not if he was starvin', poor devil?"

Sarlon was counting out the money for the sandwiches, and paid no attention to the man's talk; but the latter went on.

"Of course, I know it's against the rules to talk, but the escape ain't official yet, or the town would know it. They haven't sent out the signal, because some of you warders are still looking for him. He ain't a desperate character, him that's got away, is he?"

"How much for the sandwiches?" asked Sarlon quietly.

"One and six, boss. Rotten night, ain't it? Rather you were doin' a search than me in this fog. Of course, I know it ain't official about that escaped convict, or they'd hev sent out the signal----"

Sarlon picked up the parcel of food and swung out of the shop, glad to escape into the gloom of the street. He had felt the eyes of every customer on him while he stood at the counter. He trudged on, eating the sandwiches ravenously.

He heard the tramcars moving slowly along the street. Flares were lit at the corners. At a crossing he stood to think matters out. He wanted to get to a railway station. The plan he had formed was a bold one. Originally he had hoped to make his way to one of his pals, but now that he had money he decided on a better plan. He knew the police would search his usual haunts for him. He saw that he would be safer at his home, where his relatives would hide him. He was not a Londoner by birth. If only he could get on board an express he would be safe. His warder's dress would carry him past the ticket-collector at the barrier; especially since the news of his escape was not yet officially broadcast he would be free from suspicion.

He stopped a pedestrian and asked the way to the station. He was directed to follow the trams, then take certain turnings. The station was within an hour's walk at ordinary times.

Sarlon strode along exultantly. His disguise had carried him through so far, and he had little fear for the next steps. He experienced a strange uplift as he walked. People shuffled past him, coughing and peering about them. Buses and traffic moved very slowly in the middle of the road, crawling furtively, with glaring headlights that came and went in ghostly procession. The lighted windows of the shops glimmered in the yellow fog.

He had walked for well over an hour when he heard the shriek of a railway locomotive, followed by the bang of a fog signal. He knew he was near the railway station at last.

He approached it cautiously and found the entrance, a dully lit tunnel in which people were moving about like gnomes of the night. He made his way towards the booking office and was almost at it when someone touched his arm. He turned to find a policeman at his elbow. The sight almost unnerved him.

"What's the news, mate?"

"The news?" stammered Sarlon; then, getting a grip on himself, he answered steadily enough: "There ain't any news."

The policeman shrugged his shoulders.

"I expect you had an idea that your man would come this way, but I give you my word he hasn't showed up, nor anybody like him. I've been on duty here for over an hour, keeping an eye on everybody. Some of our plain-clothes men are on the platform too, and we're watching the siding so that he won't get aboard a train."

"Is that so?" said Sarlon.

"You bet. The prison people telephoned to our station and we were sent out at once. By the way, do you know that you men are being called in?"

"No, is that so?"

"We have been told to notify any of you we meet to return to the prison. The Governor wants to interrogate every warder before he sends out an official call."

The policeman rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.

"That runaway will get it in the neck when he is nabbed," he went on. "After what he did to one of your men."

"What did he do?"

"Haven't you heard? He nearly killed a warder named Tully--expect you know him----"

"I know him."

"I heard at the station just before I left. They found this warder in a trench over by the church. He had been battered badly. The dogs found him, led by the smell of paint. Tully must have found the escaped convict and been attacked. I don't know the particulars, but they say that the convict has crossed the canal. We've notified every barge owner and expect he'll come this way before the fog lifts."

"Oh, I see."

"So that's why the job is out of your hands now, mate. It's a police job, beyond your jurisdiction. The dogs have been called off and it's up to us."

Sarlon passed his hand over his face thoughtfully. He was very cool, yet he was very alert.

"What's you people's idea of his likely way of escape?"

"Well, they've put us to watch the railway and sidings. He won't stay about this district if he can get away, and he can't get away by walking the streets. The inspector believes he'll get out of town, maybe make for a port. He could change his clothes somewhere----"

"Well, I suppose it isn't any use me hanging about if we are called in," said Sarlon. "They'll think I'm lost if I don't report. So long."

He turned on his heel and walked out into the fog once more. Once outside, he strode swiftly along the street, his brain active and searching for a way out. His disguise as a warder had saved him, or perhaps it was his nerve, but he had had a narrow shave. Had the policeman not spoken to him he would have bought a ticket and then he would have had to explain. He ground his teeth at the thought of having been balked; but he was thankful for the policeman's talk all the same.

What was his position now? He dared not go back to the railway station. He dared not risk walking about, lest he meet other policemen. But he had to get away. He considered anxiously.

"There is a workmen's train in the early hours that will take me to some station beyond the city," he muttered. "I'll go back to the church steeple and wait until it's about time to catch the workmen's train. There won't be any police at the station then. Anyway, I'll have a rest in the church steeple and think it out."

With the thought of returning to this excellent hiding-place came another. How was he to get back? He had been walking in the fog so much that he had lost sense of direction. He stood still wondering which way to turn.

Just then, as he pondered, there came a sound that sent a reassuring thrill through him. His luck was holding after all. A bell was booming out above and through the fog.

"Evensong!" he exclaimed. "The church bell!"

He could find his way to the church by the clanging of the parish bell. It was the only bell that rang during every day of the week, and he blessed the fog and the bell and the church as he plodded towards the sound, a voice calling to him to come and be hidden, ringing its message, its invitation to sanctuary indeed.

As he walked, he thought out his plan. He would not go into the church while the people were there. He would slip round to the back and climb to the tower as soon as the congregation had settled to worship. Once there he could think out his next step without the harassing need to avoid people at every step.

Gradually the sound of the bell drew nearer. He was walking down the side street towards the church now. He pictured the scene as it was on fogless days; but his reckoning sometimes was out, because he was not too well acquainted with the streets; but he was happy--grimly triumphant.

The bell's notes began to dwindle. Its clang softened, its call faded. Harry Sarlon saw the dim outline of the stone porch silhouetted in the fog by a light beyond the Gothic structure.

He waited some distance from the door until the bell was stilled. Then he walked forward, pushed the iron gate open, and passed into the porch and so through--as he thought--the square tower.

But at that moment a lantern was swung behind him, its light flashed into his face.

A man's voice, gruff and menacing, challenged him.

"Hullo, there! We were told all you men had returned. I was just locking up the gate. What's this? Oh, I say----!"

A hand pulled off Sarlon's cap and a pair of strong arms pinned his arms to his sides while the man shouted an alarm.

"Help! Quick! I've got Sarlon!"

Harry Sarlon did not struggle in the grasp that held him, nor did he make any attempt to escape. He felt suddenly sick at the trick the bell had played him.

He was not in the porch of a parish church. What he had heard was the prison bell signalling officially to the wide world that a convict had escaped; and he had walked back to prison, guided there by the alarm.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE NINTH CELL

"I think," said the visitor, when the Governor had completed the eighth story, "that this man Sarlon made his mistake because he was unacquainted with the district near his prison."

"Precisely--up to a point," admitted the Governor, who was about to add something else, when he was interrupted.

"It is not a mistake _I_ shall make," remarked the visitor grimly. "And I frankly tell you that I am aware one of the Big Five of Scotland Yard has been interesting himself in my movements of late."

"It is no secret that your capture has been much desired," returned the Governor. "It may not be fog that will lead to your undoing at last. It may not be a mistake on your part; but something, somewhere, will happen, I assure you, and you will be caught."

"If it pleases you to think so, please continue in your error," responded the visitor. "In the meantime, now that I have listened to your stories, may I press the question that I came here to put to you? Are you willing to act in either of the two ways I have suggested regarding the condemned man?"

The Governor seemed lost in thought for a moment; but presently he lifted his head and smiled at the man who sat opposite.

"We have still plenty of time to come to a decision on that matter, and your mention of the Big Five has interested me. Most people--that is, most people in the general public--are under the impression that the final details relating to the capture of criminals are in the hands of a Big Four whose headquarters are at Scotland Yard. Now, since you mention a Big Five, I take it that you are including that able officer, Detective Seed?"

"I am. But----"

"Ah, how curious! You know, our thoughts evidently run parallel on quite a number of lines. The fact is that Detective Seed was responsible for the occupant of my ninth cell being in my prison to-night. I do not know if you ever met, or heard of, a most notorious burglar named Sockem?"

"You are not going to tell me that Sockem is in your prison!" sneered the visitor suddenly. "He is dead. I have seen his grave. He was drowned up the Thames."

"That is where you are wrong, I assure you. He was not drowned at all. But he is dead all the same, and it is of the manner of his death that I would like to tell you. The man who occupies the ninth cell was a mere cipher in the story of Sockem's end, but he was an agent for a receiver of stolen property named Eckhardt, of whom I shall have a word or two to say very soon. Mackintosh is the name of this man in the ninth cell--a cautious man who came from Aberdeen, an elder of a Scottish church, an ex-soldier. Ah, well, he is insignificant, but he is in the ninth cell to-night, and to tell you how he came to be there I must tell you the truth of Sockem's final flutter in crime. There are points that will interest you, believe me."

"It interests me to hear that Sockem was not drowned," remarked the visitor. "He was no ordinary man. Pray proceed, but don't make it too long."

"I shall be as short as possible in my recital, but one must do justice to facts as well as to dead men, and I am a stickler for etiquette. Besides, I happen to know more about Sockem than most people, even his friends. To begin with, Sockem was not his name at all. But I am anticipating. Let us first set the stage for the drama."

The Governor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if to recall the story he was about to relate. Only the ticking of the clock sounded in the room.

* * * * *

One must admit [so the Governor began, after a short space] that Jimmy Sockem had pluck. But a burglar cannot always work alone, and when Ben Foss, who had for a long time acted as his "scout," turned to honest ways, Jimmy had either to find another scout or work by himself. He tried to find a helper, and did not succeed. None that he employed on his raids on society was so pliable as Ben Foss. Then he tried working alone. That did not do either, for a second man is useful. You will admit the truth of this.

So, then, one night Jimmy Sockem might have been seen (or, rather, might not have been seen) climbing a water-spout in the West End of London. There were two objects in his mind as he climbed. The first was to get certain jewellery in a flat. The second was to compel Ben Foss to give up honesty and return to lawlessness.

So far as Ben Foss was concerned, there is no doubt that he wanted to be free of Sockem; but, not having the strength of will to defy Jimmy, he shrank from heroic measures. In a word, he was afraid of Sockem.

With his finger-tips on the edge of the window-sill and his left hand grasping the drain-pipe, Jimmy paused for the final effort. He had climbed more than forty feet from the back garden of the block of flats. Someone was down below him. He could hear feet crunching the gravel path with hesitating steps; but the thin fog that rose from the earth was his protection, as ground mist has so often been the protection of London burglars ever since there was London, or fogs.

From the street beyond the building he heard the rumble of the traffic, the roar of the buses, the hooting of motor-horns. He listened attentively, hanging, spread-eagled, against the wall like a gigantic beetle. The movements beneath him became blurred and indistinct, then gradually faded away. He was safe.

From his pocket Jimmy Sockem took his favourite and only tool, and dug it into the mortar between the bricks. It was an extra-long horseshoe nail, made of steel, bright and polished, pointed and sharpened like a rapier. On this nail he rested his knee, then his right foot, and finally raised himself and swung over to the sill, on which he knelt.

He withdrew the nail from the mortar and slid it up between the frame of the window and the catch. A sudden twist was all that was required. The window opened. Jimmy put his leg over the sill and stepped into the dark room, drawing the heavy curtains behind him.

He crouched low as his quick ear detected a footstep outside the door. He heard the door open, a light was snapped on, and he saw a silver-haired, elderly man standing on the threshold. He faced Jimmy before the latter had time to hide behind the furniture.

"The cat burglar! Put your hands up!"

Jimmy did not answer the accusation. His eyes were glancing about the room. The elderly man was pointing a revolver towards him.

"You disturbed an alarm when you opened the window," he said quietly. "Put your hands above your head. My man will tie you until----"

It was then that Jimmy attacked. His gloved hands rose as if in obedience to the order, but as his right came up it caught, in its swing, a heavy bronze statuette from a small table and launched the missile with the accuracy of a practised thrower. The crack of the revolver and the crash of the bronze on the elderly man's head were simultaneous.

Both men dropped to the floor; the attacker, because it was his usual stratagem, the other for quite a different reason.

Then, swiftly, one leaped upright. It was Sockem. The man who had fired the revolver was down and out. A great, bleeding wound on his head showed where he had been struck.

Jimmy crept over to where his victim lay and peered at him grimly.

"Serve him right!" he muttered. He was under the impression that he had killed his man, but it did not trouble him--much.

A sound behind him caused him to wheel. He found himself face to face with another man, but this individual did not, to him, constitute an enemy. It was Ben Foss.

"That you, Ben? I done your boss in."

"You've killed him, Jimmy! Why did you come?"

"Anybody else around?"

"No, there was just him and me. An' he was a decent sort."

"I wrote you that I was comin', didn't I? You didn't have the window open. I had to bust the catch."

"I didn't want you to come, Jimmy! I wrote back askin' you not to. I'm on the level now. He fixed the alarm a while ago----"

"And I fixed him, see? Serve him right! You thought your letter would keep me away? What are you standing there shakin' like a jelly for? Let's take the jewellery and get off quick."

"_We?_ You said _us_?"

"Of course. You're comin' with me. We were pals before we went to Parkhurst, weren't we? We'll be partners again."

"Jimmy, I was tryin' to run straight. I was his servant."