"Yes, Mackenzie? What now?"

"I've brought ye B14, sir."

"Why don't you show him in, then?"

"Well, sir, I'm thinking he's no' altogether to be trustit. I thought maybe if ye'd permit me to be in the room—"

"Trusted? Nonsense, man! I'm not made of glass. Bring him in at once." And as Mackenzie turned reluctantly to obey, the Governor added: "You can stand in a corner and see fair play, if you like. But I don't think a little whippersnapper like our friend would make much of it if he tried to tackle me, eh, Mackenzie?"

"Well, sir, maybe no," said Mackenzie, with his slow smile.

Captain Harding, a lean Anglo-Indian, all bone and sinew, got up and posted himself with his hands under his coattails, back to the fire. He felt the cold, and there was a blaze in his grate on many a chilly summer evening. His room was comfortably furnished with a Turkey carpet and deep leather arm-chairs. To many a prisoner it had seemed a glimpse of paradise. B14, however, took no notice; his apathetic face did not change, only he edged surreptitiously towards the hearth. "You can come near the fire if you like," said Harding, eyeing him sharply; and as Gardiner stumbled forward he put a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter with you? Are you sick?"

Gardiner raised his eyes; in their darkness shone a metallic feral glare. "I'm perfectly well," he said, on the sullen verge of insolence.

"He's for the hospital, sir," said Mackenzie from the background, with an apologetic cough.

"Sit down," said the Governor shortly. He sat down himself, at his table, and turned over some papers. "Your name is Henry de la Cruz Gardiner?"

"De la Cruz," Gardiner interrupted, correcting him as he had corrected Lettice—how long ago?—only in those days he had not spoken in that tone. Again he edged nearer to the fire. He was cold to the marrow of his bones, colder than he had ever been in his life.

"Ah! Well, Gardiner, I'm sorry to say I have some bad news for you. I've received a letter from your father. It is against the rules for me to give it to you; but I can either read it or give you a summary. Shall I read it?" Gardiner made no sign; he was staring sullenly into the flames. Captain Harding, after another sharp glance at him over the top of the sheet, cleared his throat and began.

"'My own darling boy—'"

The prisoner stirred; that address touched some chord in his mind.

"'My own darling boy, I have two pieces of very bad news for you. I have been making inquiries at Headquarters in Town from all refugees, but for a long time could hear nothing of your part of the country. Last Friday, however, they wrote me that a man had come in from Bouillon. I went up at once, and heard the whole story from his lips. Alas! my dear boy, I am grieved to tell you that your friends have suffered most cruelly from Those Brutes. The village of Rochehaut was burned on 28th August, and a large number of the men were massacred. Your friend the CurÉ was cut down with the Sacred Vessels in his hands. I could learn nothing of the fate of the Women of the village, but it seems that in the outlying farms and cottages every kind of abomination was committed by Those Devils. I asked particularly about your hotel, and oh my dear dear boy, he tells me that it has been burned to the ground. Those Devils Incarnate (God punish them) first stole everything they had a mind to, and then set fire to the building. He saw it burning with his own eyes, as he escaped through the woods. He says that all the servants had left on the outbreak of war, and that no one was left in it but a caretaker. I do not know whether this was your little friend Miss Merion-Smith, but I should be afraid so, as she has not returned to England. What makes it particularly sad is that we hear (and this is my second piece of bad news) that poor Denis Merion-Smith is among the missing. He was sent on a bombing raid to Aix-la-Chapelle, and failed to return. One of his companions fancies that he was hit by Anti-Aircraft fire; when last seen he was "flying rather wild," but his machine seemed to be still under control. Oh my dear dear boy, my heart bleeds for you. I wish I could see you. These senseless rules and regulations make my blood boil, in times like these. I have written to the Home Secretary, but he is no good at all; he seems incapable of understanding the simplest thing. I wonder what we pay him for. It is too, too dreadful to think of the fate of that poor girl, and of poor Denis. This awful war is breaking all our hearts. May God never forgive the wicked Author of it. Tom writes that he is "going strong"—whatever that may mean; I wish he would not use this American slang. Of course he does not tell me where he is, but I believe it is somewhere on the River Aisne. God keep and comfort you, my own dear boy. From your loving Father.'

"That is all," said Captain Harding, folding the sheet.

Gardiner's lips moved; he muttered something inaudible. "What's that?" asked the Governor sharply. The murmur was repeated; it sounded like, "I killed"—him or her, uncertain which. Captain Harding could make nothing of it. He looked dubiously at the hunched-up figure, crouching into itself, staring vacantly at the carpet. Scott's pet patient—yes; but it was a hard case, no doubt of it. "You must keep up a good heart," he said kindly. "Many of the missing turn up again safe and sound, you know; and I've heard that flying officers are particularly well treated by the Germans when they fall into their hands. No use going to meet trouble half-way and believing the worst before you know it's happened."

"I killed her," muttered the prisoner again.

"You what?"

"I killed her. I sent her out there to her death. I killed her—"

Harding laid hands on the chair and wheeled it round to the light. "What's that? What are you talking about?"

"Nothing," said Gardiner. His eyes blinked stupidly in the sunshine. "May I—may I have my letter?" he asked, half stretching out his hand.

"I'm afraid that's against the rules, but I can read it to you again, if you like."

The hand dropped.

"Is there any question you want to ask?"

"No," said Gardiner; adding, as an afterthought: "No, thank you, sir." It was the first time he had used the title of respect. Certainly a hard case, and the Governor was very sorry for him, and not quite satisfied; but there was nothing to be done. He looked at Mackenzie, and Mackenzie touched B14's arm. Stumbling to his feet, he got out of the room and down the passages somehow to his cell, where he dropped face downwards on the bed.

"I'll be round in twa-three minutes to take you to hospital," said Mackenzie, preparing to withdraw.

"Mackenzie."

"Well? What ails ye now?"

The prisoner had struggled up on his elbow. "Tell Dr. Scott I want to see him."

"Ye'll be seein' him in half-an-hour."

"I want to see him in half-a-minute."

"He's awa' at his lunch," said the warder. "I've disturrbed him at his breakfast for ye already the morn; can't you let him get a bite in peace? I wouldna be hard on ye, but ye must be reasonable."

"Mackenzie!"

Again the prisoner called him back. He had swung his feet to the ground; he looked wild and dangerous enough for anything. "You bring Scott along. You'll be sorry for it if you don't."

"I tell you he's awa at his—"

"Man, man! What's that to do with it? You fetch him here double-quick time, or I tell you you'll be sorry for it—you'll be sorry all the days of your life! Will you go?"

Mackenzie caught that green glitter, and he did not like it; he did not like it at all. It sent him off, shaking his head, hotfoot to the doctor's quarters, to face again the redoubtable Katie. Meanwhile the prisoner sprang up and paced his cell, up and down, with the strength of fever. When the doctor came in, he was standing in the middle of the floor, his stool held by the leg in one hand, in the other a small object which he thrust violently forward.

"Here, Scott, catch hold of this! You've been long enough coming—you're only just in time!"

Scott looked down at the splinter of glass. "So that was how you meant to do it, hey?"

"Yes, that was how I meant to do it. And don't you let me get hold of it again, and don't you send me to that damned hospital of yours, unless you want murder done. I've had about as much as I can stick. I won't be herded with a mob of filthy jail-birds. Keep off—if you lay a finger on me I'll bash your brains out against that wall!"

Scott with absolute fearlessness stepped forward and caught his wrist.

"Drop that stool—drop it! That's better. Now, listen to me. I'm not going to leave you here—wait! I've not done—and I'm not going to send you to hospital either. You'll go to the padded cell."

"The padded cell?" echoed Gardiner, "the padded cell? I never thought of that. You have some sense in your head, Scott. See here"—his face had changed, relaxed into something like humanity; he seized the doctor's hand and spoke rapidly, earnestly—"I'm sane for the moment; for heaven's sake listen to what I say! Five minutes ago I was crazy to kill myself. Five minutes hence I shall want to again, and if by any hook or crook I can, I shall. So you put me in that padded cell, and you keep me there! Don't you let me out—don't you let me out on any pretext whatever! I shall beg and pray you, I shall howl like all the devils in hell, I shall invent excuses I haven't the ingenuity to imagine now, but whatever I say or do, don't you listen! It's these next twelve hours I'm afraid of. If you'll keep me in there, hermetically sealed, till to-morrow morning, I shall be all right. Will you do it?" Scott did not answer; he had drawn him towards the window, and was looking and looking into his eyes as if he would have probed his inmost soul. "It's a risk? Yes, but it's that either way. Let me go down fighting, Scott!" Still no reply. "You a Christian and afraid!" Gardiner scoffed.

"No, I'm not afraid," said the little man curtly. He released him. "I'll do it."

"You will? You swear you won't let me go?"

"My word's my bond."

He went out. The prisoner fell back on his pallet and threw his arm across his eyes. "Now I've done it!" he murmured with a long breath. "Now I've burned my boats! Are you satisfied, Lettice? My life for yours: is it a fair exchange? You always wanted this—well, fair or not, it's the best I can do...."

The padded cell, for weak-minded criminals, resembles on a large scale one of those lined work-boxes which young ladies used in the seventies, except that stout yellow canvas takes the place of quilted satin. Padding a yard thick covers walls and floor. There is a small window under the ceiling; a squint, as usual, in the door; and another, high up, commanding every corner of the cell. No furniture, not so much as a bed.

Prisoners have been known to get their nails under the canvas and rip it from the walls, at a cost to the British taxpayer of some sixty pounds. B14 did not do that; but within half-an-hour he was raving, as he had foretold. Warders passing outside could hear the thump of his body flinging itself against the padded door, and his shrieks filled the ward. There was nothing out of the way: prisoners were often brought in raving in delirium tremens, whose yells were quite as loud, and their language a shade worse. The man on duty contented himself with periodic peeps to make sure that B14 was not damaging the canvas.

Scott was unable to listen with the same equanimity. Yet he could not keep away; again and again, on one pretext or another, back he came to Ward B. Once he peeped through the spy-hole, just before he went off for the night. The prisoner was crouching under the door; his cries had for the moment sunk into whimpers: "Scott, let me out—let me out, Scott!" Scott fled from the place as though the devil were at his heels.

Returning at daybreak, he entered the prison just as breakfast was going round. Chief Warder Mackenzie greeted him with a cheerful good-day.

"Ye're early abroad, sir."

"Yes," said Scott; "I was restless. What sort of a night have you had with B14, eh?"

"Well, sir, they do tell me he was terrible noisy at first, but he's quieted down a bittie now. Maybe ye'll like to take a look at him?"

"I should," said Scott, falling in beside the big man. Mackenzie walked along, discoursing amiably about the war and his nephew in the Black Watch, without seeming to notice his companion's silence. All was quiet in Ward B; nobody shrieked or moaned any more.

"He won't have much appetite for his breakfast, I'm thinkin'," remarked the warder, leisurely unlocking the door. "Ye'll go in, sir?"

Scott stepped lightly across the spongy canvas. B14 was lying in a heap under the window, his arm across his face; he did not stir. Scott's heart gave one great throb and seemed to stop; he drew away the arm.

Gardiner's dark eyes were looking up at him with a faint gleam; his voice came, the mere ghost of a whisper.

"Sucks for—Satan—this time—doctor!"