Chapter IX: Part 9

Now, Mushet was a clever man in his way. He had started life as a chemist's assistant, having been given this chance by a friendly chemist who took an interest in the welfare of needy boys. Mushet had learned a great deal in the shop; but he had turned out a bad speculation, for he had robbed his employer and had been sent to prison. After that he no longer tried to redeem his lost character. Prison had taught him one thing--the advantage of waiting and planning. He was clever enough to see that if one acted on the spur of a moment the results might be disastrous. It may have been that his life as a chemist's assistant had taught him much in this way also, for he had been sent to school where he had learned Latin, and had reached the stage where he could dispense prescriptions. This requires care and concentration.

The more he thought of Hartz the more he felt a terrible desire for revenge. Hartz had taunted him with the suggestion that he could fetch the police in order to "eggsplain" the situation. That taunt rankled. It was very obvious, of course, that Mushet dared not fetch a policeman. To prove that any case was his he would be compelled to state the contents. To state the contents would send him to the criminal dock.

He smiled grimly the more he considered the audaciously simple way by which Hartz had drawn his prize from him; and when Alfred Mushet smiled in that way there was cruelty in his expression--ice-cold ferocity as relentless as it was deep.

Taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner, he entered the Park and sat down to think it out. There was one point that troubled him. Was it possible that Hartz had already handed over the attaché-case to the police? Was Hartz in league with the police? Or was the case still in the shop? As he sat in Hyde Park, there came to Alfred Mushet an idea whereby he could find out this and also exact a nice revenge on Hartz.

It was late when he left Hyde Park and made his way to his lodgings. He did not wait there long--just long enough to secure a pair of rubber gloves, a new pair--for it was one of his that had been found at the flat of Gladys Crieff--a few tools, three small phials, and a flashlamp. Having put these into his pockets, he started out for Hartz's shop.

It was quite dark, and the street was fairly quiet. To enter the shop was an easy job for Alfred Mushet. He was used to taking risks, to cutting out glass and sawing off locks. He did not require much energy to get into the little pawnbroker's place. Everything seemed to be in his favour. In the yard at the back of the shop there was a back window to the premises. Mushet tore the catch off the rotten sash and pushed the window up without noise. He stepped inside.

His first precaution was to pull down the blind. He was in the back shop, and it looked like a lumber-room. The edge of a large safe peeped out from a litter of old clothes, parcels, boots, all kinds of goods thrown around. On the shelves were more articles, crammed together without care or any semblance of order.

Between the front shop and the back was a narrow staircase, uncarpeted and dusty. It was up there that Hartz lived; but Mushet did not intend to disturb him. He was bent on other work. He was searching for the attaché-case.

Into the front shop he stepped gingerly, his flashlamp shedding its ray over the counter and the shelves. He searched everywhere--under the counter, among the piles of goods on the shelves, behind the shelves. He drew blank. The back room was still to explore. He returned to it, and was on the point of stepping over a heap of goods on the floor when a board creaked on the stair. Mushet stiffened suddenly and extinguished his flashlamp.

Another board creaked. Someone was coming down the stairs. A glimmer of light flickered from the narrow opening between the two rooms. Next moment the figure of Hartz appeared.

He was clad in his shirt and trousers, and above his head he held a candle. He looked the queerest figure imaginable as he stood on the bottom step, clawing at his beard and peering about like a hawk, startled and suspicious. His large round spectacles glinted as the glass caught the light of the candle. He did not see Mushet, who had drawn himself close to the wall behind the heap of goods; but Mushet saw him, and acted at once.

He bounded forward and threw his arms round the man's neck, dragging him to the ground and pressing his throat so that he could not utter a sound. The candle dropped to the floor and the flame was extinguished. Hartz's spectacles were knocked off in the attack, but he had a resistance that surprised Mushet. It was the hysterical strength of an old man.

Mushet held him down, nevertheless.

"Lie still," he commanded.

"My spectacles! My spectacles!" cried Hartz. "I cannot see."

"I don't want you to see," answered Mushet. "I knocked them off on purpose."

"A burglar, is it?" gasped Hartz. "But you will find nothing! I am poor. You are killing me."

Mushet released the pressure on Hartz and rose to his feet. He believed he had frightened Hartz, but, as soon as his grip was loosened, the latter threw his hands out and clutched Mushet by the shoulders.

"I know you! Your voice! You are the one who came for an attaché-case and would not let me eggsplain. Help! Help! Robbers!"

It was the worst thing that Hartz could have done, but he was frightfully afraid, and his nerves were all to pieces. Mushet gave him no chance to repeat the cry for help. They fought it out in the darkness.

It was an unequal fight. But Mushet was desperate, since he had been recognised. It was a brutal fight. It ended when Mushet struck Hartz with all his force above the heart. Hartz dropped, and lay still.

Mushet found his flashlight, which had been lost in the struggle, and pressed the trigger. He saw that Hartz was dead, or, rather, he tried not to believe it. He had never killed anyone, though he had been in fights; and it seemed unbelievable that a man should die from a blow. And then, as he looked down at Hartz and remembered how he had struck him, the truth penetrated his brain. It is comparatively easy to kill a man with a blow on the heart when the victim is being pressed against a wall and half strangled as well.

And now, out of the medley of emotions that surged up within Mushet, there emerged the clear need for keeping his head. The death of Hartz shocked him, but he still saw how he could get clear away. All he had to do was to carry out the scheme he had come to execute.

Mushet did not see, of course, that he was just then proving what criminologists have always held. One crime must take place to cover another, until it ends in the grand climax. That is the usual way, according to theorists; but Mushet now unconsciously began to work that theory backwards. With the death of Hartz events must be made to resolve themselves into their original unsuspicious parts. By carrying out his original plan he could cover the greater crime.

He let Hartz lie as he had fallen, and set about taking what was worth stealing. There was not much--mostly trinkets and old things that would fetch a small sum. Mushet took his choice.

He next attacked the large safe in the back room. It was a tough safe, but he used a chemical from one of the phials in his pocket, and the liquid bit deep into the metal and softened it for his tools. But when at last he swung the heavy door open he found that the safe contained only a cash-book, deeds, and documents connected with loans. This proved to Mushet that Hartz had handed the necklace over to the police.

The time he had spent on the safe had been wasted. He had been over an hour on the premises, and he must leave quickly. But before he left he laid the most cunning plan to cover his tracks that could be conceived. His chemical knowledge prompted it.

He returned to the front shop and found the electric bell, operated by the front-door bell-push. With a screwdriver he took off the bell and balanced in its place a thin phial. This phial contained sulphuric acid. Then he went upstairs to the living-room and returned with a cup. Into this cup he poured some sugar and chloride of potassium. He fixed the cup under the phial of sulphuric acid; and around it, leading to the floor, he placed some inflammable material. He had not intended to do this so elaborately, but, now that Hartz was dead, he took his time. The idea was a masterpiece.

This is how he had planned. When the button of the door-bell was pressed the hammer would be thrown on the phial of acid. The thin glass would break, the acid would fall on the contents of the cup, and a flame would arise sufficient to set alight the material surrounding it. The fire would destroy any clue of an intruder's presence. It would do more. It would also supply a reason for Hartz being found lying in his shop--if he was found at all. What theory was more likely than that Hartz, being awakened by a fire, had hurried downstairs? Without his spectacles, he had fallen. Or even with them; it did not matter. Accidental death! And if the fire got a good hold, there would be no need for any theory at all!

Having set everything in proper working order, Alfred Mushet left the premises as he had entered them. It was now the small hours of the morning. He sauntered past the front door of the pawnshop and pressed the bell. He listened intently. He peered through the window. He saw a tiny flame spring up in the depths of the shop. He went home to his lodgings.

A few hours later, as he lay in bed, he heard a commotion in the street. Voices were shouting; a policeman's whistle was sounding. People were throwing up their windows. Mushet was knocked up by his landlady. She called that there was a fire. Alfred Mushet leaped from his bed and dressed. It was now dawn, and getting lighter every minute.

Mushet joined the people who crowded to their doors to see the fire-engine when it arrived. The premises of Hartz, the pawnbroker, were blazing. To Mushet there came a great satisfaction, for he knew that by thus getting rid of Hartz he had taken from the police the only witness who could accuse him of having handed over the attaché-case containing the necklace. Thus he had preserved his freedom.

A crowd stood in front of the burning shop, and Mushet strolled down to watch. A fire-escape came at last with a rattle as the flames burst from the windows and the door fell inward. Mushet pushed his way to the front of the crowd. The excitement was intense.

"There's someone inside! There's someone inside!"

The word was taken up and repeated on all hands, but Mushet did not listen to the babble, for he knew better. Hartz was dead. A strange exhilaration filled Mushet as he watched the flames gain hold of the ramshackle place. He wanted to fan the blaze. The firemen were sending streams of water on the shop by this time, and clouds of smoke were filling the street. The police were keeping the crowd back as more hose was laid down.

And then, as he stood in the front rank of the crowd, Alfred Mushet uttered a shout. There, through the smoke and flames, he saw a moving figure emerge from the burning house. The figure was outlined against the red glow of the interior for a moment, then faded in the smoke that swirled down and blotted out the flames.

Alfred Mushet felt the hands of a policeman on him, forcing him backward. He staggered, his eyes riveted on the figure that loomed up, struggling through the smoke. His eyes started from his head. He screamed, and threw a finger out towards that figure that seemed to move towards him.

"Hartz!" he cried. "It can't be Hartz! He's dead! It's his ghost! Take it away! Hartz is dead! I killed him!"

The figure came forward; and, the smoke clearing, showed to Alfred Mushet the shabby figure of Hartz as he had been in life. His spectacles were on his nose, his beard was thick and matted, his hands clawing at it, as was his habit. Mushet cried out in agony, and fell in a faint to the ground.

Well, he was considerably shaken at the sight, and one could excuse him losing his wits, and his nerve also.

He was carried to his lodgings, and when he came to consciousness a policeman was sitting by his bed.

"Hartz is dead," murmured Mushet. "But I saw his ghost. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here," said the policeman, "because the inspector ordered me to stay. Hartz has identified you as the man who gave him the attaché-case, and found a necklace we have been hunting for. You'll have to explain that. Here comes the inspector."

At that moment the inspector entered the room and came over to the bed.

"Hartz is dead!" cried Mushet doggedly. "I saw his ghost."

"Wait a minute," said the inspector. "About that attaché-case. A fireman helped Hartz to bring out a small safe that was in the bedroom upstairs, containing the valuables of the shop. You called out that you had killed Hartz, and we have found a body. But, Mushet, didn't you know there were two of them? They kept that shop between them, and not many people knew there was more than one Hartz. The one to whom you gave the attaché-case was the one that did the outside business. He arrived back from the North by the night train, in time to raise the alarm of fire. It was he you saw, not a ghost. We'll have to question you about the death of his twin brother."

And an hour or so later Alfred Mushet was on his way to prison. His nerve and imagination deserted him during the interrogation. He broke down and confessed.

THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTEENTH CELL

As the Governor concluded the story of Alfred Mushet, he yawned involuntarily.

"I was thinking," he said, "that Mushet ought to go among my Intellectuals----"

But he got no further, for the visitor suddenly picked up his revolver and backed away menacingly.

"My dear sir," cried the Governor in expostulation, "is there anything I have said----"

"I have no fault to find with your stories," replied the other, with an alarming grimness, "but that is the last I wish to hear. You have run it very close. I ask you to look at your clock!"

The Governor turned his head and saw that the time was exactly five minutes to seven.

"Which is it to be?" pursued the visitor; and as he spoke he lifted his revolver so that the barrel pointed straight towards the Governor.

The Governor glanced round the room. He saw the fog swirling up outside the window, the glass of which was streaming with moisture. Not a sound came from any part of the large prison.

"You have just time," said the visitor quietly.

The Governor shrugged his shoulders, and a faint smile passed over his features, which had become somewhat haggard with the strain of his recitals.

"You are right," he said. "I have just time."

He lifted the bogus order of reprieve and glanced at the wording. Then he took up a fountain-pen that lay on his pen-tray.

"I am afraid," he said, in a gentle tone, "that you have more than one advantage over me. I do not refer to your gun, in the manipulation of which I admit you are an expert. If this thing is to be done, I must ring for my warders; and I think you will remember that you somewhat dislocated my bell. Now, if the warders are to come here they must not, for your own sake, find anything suspicious, or they would make a scene. The result of a scene might be deplorable----"

"For you!" interrupted the visitor.

"For both of us, I fancy. You might shoot _me_, you might shoot my warders, you might escape through the window. But, as I remarked at the beginning of our prison night's entertainment, _you_ would ultimately be caught. I am not thinking, believe me, of this matter without experiencing a personal interest in it. I wish to avoid bloodshed."

"You alone are able to provide the other way out."

"That is exactly what I have been thinking. You seem to hold the trump cards. Why should I permit you to kill me in cold blood? I daresay my warders, if the point were put to them, would feel the same emotions as I do. Therefore I propose to sign this warrant."

He lifted his pen and bent over the order; but, just as he was about to sign, he looked up at his visitor.

"I am afraid you do not quite follow," he said. "Would it not be as well if you put the bell into working order and yourself pressed it? There is my cut telephone line also--but I do not insist on that."

The visitor picked up the small piece of metal that formed the contact of the bell, and also the wooden top.

"I'll attend to it while you sign," he said. "But--_sign_!"

The Governor at once complied with what was no longer a request, but had become an order.

As he finished the signature he saw his visitor insert the contact and screw the top of the bell-push into position.

The visitor then pressed the ivory knob and walked swiftly towards the position he had previously taken up. In this way he was on the opposite side of the desk, and was near the window. He put his revolver into his pocket; but he kept his hand there also.

The two men faced each other in terrible silence.

The Governor once more looked at the clock.

The hands marked the time as three minutes to the hour.

"My friend," said the Governor in a low tone, suddenly, "you have forgotten something."

"What is it?"

"You have not unlocked the door!"

"Ah!"

The visitor strode over, took the key from his pocket, and inserted it in the lock. He twisted it quickly and returned to his position, his right hand once more in his coat pocket, covering his revolver.

"You observe," said the Governor, with a faint attempt at a smile, "that what I said originally was true. You people almost always forget something. Now, supposing my warders had come and found that door locked? Would that not have been a suspicious matter? It was I who remembered. You see how I am really protecting you from yourself? Alas, prison is an institution where we always try to protect criminals from themselves. That is the second function of a prison, as I took pains to explain to you when I invited you to listen to my theories."

The visitor was about to reply, but the Governor continued quickly:

"You will observe that I have signed this order in the proper way." (He held the document up for inspection, and the visitor satisfied himself that everything was as the Governor stated.) "I will give this to the warder who is now on the way here. He will take it to my deputy----"

"Why to your deputy? I want the condemned man brought here!"

The visitor flashed out his question suspiciously, but the Governor spread his hand in a gesture of explanation.

"My dear sir, a warder has no power to release a prisoner, especially one in the condemned cell, until he has been given the proper authority, and the Governor, or his deputy, is present. That is routine. You cannot complain of it, since you went to the trouble to get a reprieve in the authoritative way; and you are wise enough to know that any departure from routine would imperil your scheme, as it would imperil my reputation. Here comes my warder, I fancy."

The visitor was about to say something in reply to the Governor, but at that moment feet could be heard in the corridor. A knock sounded on the door. The Governor did not move.

"Come in!" he called.

The door opened, and a warder stood on the threshold, saluting stiffly.

The Governor lifted the order of reprieve, folded it up, and held it out towards the warder.

"Take that to the Deputy-Governor at once," he said. The visitor's eyes were watching closely.

"Any answer, sir?" asked the warder.

"Yes, there will be an answer. Tell my deputy I have a gentleman here who has come urgently on behalf of the condemned prisoner. I am waiting. Make haste."

The warder saluted, and went out hurriedly.

As soon as he had departed, the Governor turned towards his visitor.

"I think you were about to make a remark when my warder approached," he said. "It was not a complaint, I hope."

"I was about to say that, with all your talk, lasting throughout the night, you have proved nothing to convince me that I shall fail to do what I came to do. I still hold the winning hand. In a few minutes I shall be gone with my friend. When the Deputy-Governor comes with the prisoner, you will bid him leave the matter between you and me, as I proposed originally. I shall still see that your reputation does not suffer. You object to taking either of two methods I suggested--that of being bound to your chair, or that of taking a drink that would send you to sleep. You have chosen to pretend that the reprieve is all correct. Perhaps it is the best way out for you. And yet I must inform you that I have formed a conclusion. It would not be safe for me to take my friend out by the prison gates, because you could raise an alarm immediately I left this room. I shall see to it that we have some time to make our escape."

"What do you intend to do?"

"That must be left to me. As soon as your deputy leaves, and my friend and I are alone with you, it will be simple. I shall not injure you in any way. We may go out by the window after all. The fog is very thick."

He had lost the attitude of antagonism that had until then been dominant in his speech.

"We have been opponents," he went on, "and we have come to an understanding, as I knew we would. I thank you for having told me the stories; but, while I enjoyed them, I would remind you that, while these narratives have been entertaining, they have not proved a single point in your contentions. The reason is very obvious."

"What is the reason?" asked the Governor humbly.

"It is this: you have been telling stories concerning _persons who have been captured_. The thought came to me this moment. And the fact that you have been forced to carry out my wishes proves that your theories are all wrong. In my one triumph lies the destruction of your many axioms. Of course, had I not been interested in your eccentricity I would never have allowed you any latitude; but, for a crank, I find you a very engaging one--a theorist, with all the faults of one. On the other hand, you are not oblivious of the fact that you have been beaten, and that your life is being spared because I see that you have surrendered without useless opposition. I admire you for it."

The Governor bowed.

"In my turn," he said, "let me ask you one question. If, by some fluke of circumstances, by some unforeseen error on your part or on mine, you had been unable to save your accomplice from the scaffold--which is a fate he richly deserves--would you have admitted failure with the same readiness, and in the same spirit, with which you give me credit?"

"I would. It has always been a point with me to surrender when it is impossible to escape." Then he added with emphasis: "But, at the same time, my code of war is such that I have never yet admitted that every chance was lost. If, however, such a position should arise in the future, I am well aware that resistance would be an aggravation, and it would probably lengthen the sentence a judge might hand out."

The Governor held out his hand frankly.

"It is refreshing to hear you speak in this way," he remarked. "I will be able to pass the expression of your views to the quarter where they will be duly appreciated."

As the two men clasped hands a loud bang, like the shutting of a heavy, distant door, disturbed the silence that had fallen on the room.

The Governor's fingers tightened on those of his visitor and held them firmly, his left hand fell gently on the man's shoulder. They stood for a fraction of time facing each other. They might have been two friends taking grave farewell of each other.

The Governor spoke.

"I am glad my poor attempt to emulate the feat of the amiable Scheherazade has been pleasing to you. As the Sultan Schahriah you have been excellent. But, nevertheless, the result _has_ convinced me in my theories."

"How?" demanded the visitor, with a start of uneasiness.

"You have claimed the victory; but, sir, victory ought not to be claimed until a game or a contest is ended."

"Explain yourself."

"Ah," said the Governor steadily, as he still held his visitor's right hand and increased the pressure of his hold on the man's shoulder, "my deputy and two warders will, according to routine, be here in a moment. I hear their footsteps."

A knock sounded on the door. The Governor called, "Come in!" and, without turning his head, continued to his visitor:

"The victory is not yours after all. _Your accomplice is dead._ The bang we heard a moment ago was the noise of the trap-door on the scaffold falling into the pit. You did not know, of course, that my clock is an hour slow! You are under arrest!"

Two warders and the deputy had meanwhile entered the apartment, closing the door behind them.

The visitor's face went livid. For a frightful instant he stared at the Governor; and then the Governor's cry to his men changed, even as it was uttered, to one of sharp pain. He staggered back, bent double like a half-shut knife, into the arms of his deputy.

The visitor had dealt him a fearful blow in the abdomen with his knee: and as he dealt it he leaped backward with a snarl that might have come from a wild beast.

"Put up your hands, all of you!" His gun was thrust forward in a lightning movement. "Up! Quick!"

One of the warders disregarded the order and sprang forward, but he had not advanced a yard when "ping!" and he fell like a sack, gasping, blood streaming from his throat.

"My God!" he cried in a strangled voice. "My God! My God!"

"Up with them!"

The Governor obeyed, though his face was twisted with pain; the deputy and the remaining warder followed suit.

The wounded man on the floor continued to call "My God!" in a curious, gurgling, monotonous way, the exclamation becoming feebler every time.

It might have been part of a play, so swiftly, so definitely, had act followed act, so like a series of tableaux had movement followed movement. But there the resemblance to a play ended.

The countenance of the visitor was transformed. The previous minute he had been listening calmly to the Governor's harangue. Now he stood facing the three men, his body thrust forward, shoulders hunched, teeth gritted, passionate fury sweeping over his face in dark clouds, his eyes gleaming with a brightness that was no longer human. He was now an animal at bay. He was a wolf.

And from the bleeding warder on the floor there came the unceasing whimpering, "My God! My God!" No one took notice of his agony.

The visitor was the first to speak.

"If one of you three move an inch!" He made a significant movement with his gun. "I have four shells left!"

The Governor nodded towards the fallen warder.

"That," he said quietly, "was a mistake, my friend."

The visitor replied with savage exultation.

"Sure. His, not mine."

As he spoke the wailing of the wounded man died away, his frame quivered and then was still.

The visitor's left hand fumbled at his waist and a coil of thin rope fell at his feet. He bent down, never once taking his eyes off the others, and picked up an end formed into a loop. He stepped backward towards the window, his left hand feeling along the wood work until his fingers touched the heavy metal hook that held the curtain fastener. He slipped the loop of his rope into the hook.

Next his fingers unfastened the window catch. He threw up the sash. A billow of fog swirled into the apartment. Not for an instant while he was doing all this did he cease to face the three officials. A terrible, grim leer spread over his features. He tossed his rope backward out of the window, then brought his gun into position so that it pointed straight at the Governor's breast.

"I told you there was always a chance for me," he sneered. "It's you that hasn't a chance now. Listen. I have four shells in this gun. One is for you because you hanged Floxton, another is for the electric bulb----"

Suddenly the Governor started. His eyes, wide with astonishment and what seemed relief, fastened themselves upon the open window beyond the visitor. An instant of fearful tension followed, in which the visitor sought desperately to read the truth in the Governor's eyes without turning to see what menace was at his back. Then, as if answering the agonizing doubt, the curtain at the window moved with a crisp sound. At the very instant, the Governor shouted in the direction of the noise:

"Quick! Get him, men!"

As the visitor, in startled alarm, swung his gun round towards the open window, the Governor bounded forward, his left arm crooked and poised.

_Crack!_

All the weight of his muscular shoulders was behind the fist that struck the visitor's jaw with fearful force. The action was piston-like, a flash out and in and under that terrific blow the man's head jerked oddly, his body arose, then crashed, his gun flew across the carpet.

The deputy and the warder were upon him like cats, but the visitor was incapable of resistance. He lay motionless and unconscious.

The Governor looked for a moment at his own knuckles, then rapped out his orders.

Handcuffs were snapped on the wrists of the prostrate visitor, the body of the dead warder was removed, the window was closed.

The Governor sat down at his desk and toyed with the visitor's gun which he had picked up. Two warders were working on the unconscious visitor bringing him back to life. The deputy was standing by. The Governor looked up.

"Was the execution carried out expeditiously?"

"All correct, sir," replied the deputy.

"You will see to the repairing of my telephone and window."

"Yes, sir."

"You will inform Scotland Yard that we have here the man they want--Steve Jenkins, the accomplice of the murderer who has just been hanged."

"Very good, sir."

"Take charge of this fake reprieve and this gun. They are necessary evidence."

The deputy took the articles, and as he did so he remarked: "I think that was a great trick you played him, sir, and most original."

The Governor shook his head as his eye rested on the visitor who was now being hoisted to his feet.

"Steve Jenkins," he said, "you came here to dispute my theories and you have merely succeeded in proving them. All criminals make mistakes. Apart from the murder of my warder, for which you will hang, you made two bad mistakes within five minutes."

He rose to his feet and assumed his official manner.

"To be a professional criminal and expect to get away with it every time," he continued gravely, "is really to presume too much. It involves the possession of knowledge that must never be at fault. Why, you fell for the old trick of false alarm! I staked--correctly, it seems--on your ignorance of the historic precedent of Lord Berkeley who, one night on Hounslow Heath, shot dead, by the same ruse, a highwayman who held up his carriage at pistol point."

The prisoner eyed him balefully.

"Your next mistake was more gross. It is true I did not possess a pistol like my Lord Berkeley; but was it carelessness that made you overlook what a reference book might have told you about my few accomplishments? If so, the oversight led you into the error of leaving open a mark for an ex-champion heavy-weight of the Army who had watched all night for it."

The Governor sat down.

One of the warders who held the prisoner saluted.

"Where shall we take him, sir?"

The Governor replied grimly.

"To the fifteenth cell."

The wheels of routine began to grind once more.

THE END.

THE HOUSE OF HARPER

NEW YORK

Publishers of BOOKS and of
HARPER'S MAGAZINE

_Established 1817_

* * * * *

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]