It was five minutes past two in the morning when Marney, sitting in
the drawing-room at the front of the house, heard the sound of an auto
stop before the house. Going into the hall, she opened the door, and,
standing on the step, peered into the darkness.
“Is that you, father?” she asked.
There was no reply, and she walked quickly up the garden path to the
gate. The car was a closed coupé, and as she looked over the gate,
she saw a hand come out and beckon her, and heard a voice whisper:
“Don’t make a noise. Come in here; I want to talk to you. I don’t want
Barney to see me.”
Bewildered, she obeyed. Jerking open the door, she jumped into the
dark interior, by the side of the man at the wheel.
“What is it?” she asked.
Then, to her amazement, the car began to move toward the main road. It
had evidently circled before it had stopped.
“What is the matter, father?” she asked.
And then she heard a low chuckle that made her blood run cold.
“Go into the back and stay there. If you make a row, I’ll spoil that
complexion of yours, Marney Legge!”
“Jeffrey!” she gasped.
She gripped the inside handle of the door and had half turned it when
he caught her with his disengaged hand and flung her into the back of
the car.
“I’ll kill you if you make me do that again.” There was a queer little
sob of pain in his voice, and she remembered his wound.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“I’m taking you to your father,” was the unexpected reply. “Will you
sit quiet? If you try to get away, or attempt to call assistance, I’ll
drive you at full speed into the first tree I see, and we’ll finish
the thing together.”
From the ferocity of his tone she did not doubt that he would carry
his threat into execution. Mile after mile the car sped on, flashing
through villages, slowing through the sparsely peopled streets of
small towns. It was nearing three o’clock when they came into the
street of a town and, looking through the window, she saw a grey
façade and knew she was in Oxford.
In ten minutes they were through the city and traversing the main
western road. And now, for the first time, Jeffrey Legge became
communicative.
“You’ve never been in ‘boob,’ have you, angel?” he asked.
She did not answer.
“Never been inside the little bird-house with the other canaries, eh?
Well, that’s an experience ahead of you. I am going to put you in
jail, kid. Peter’s never been in jail either, but he nearly had the
experience to-night.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “My father has not broken the law.”
“Not for a long time, at any rate,” agreed Jeffrey, dexterously
lighting a cigarette with one hand. “But there’s a little ‘boob’
waiting for him all right now.”
“A prison?” she said incredulously. “I don’t believe you.”
“You’ve said that twice, and you’re the only person living that’s
called me a liar that number of times.”
He turned off into a side road, and for a quarter of an hour gave her
opportunity for thought.
“It might interest you to know that Johnny is there,” he said. “Dear
little Johnny! The easiest crook that ever fell--and this time he’s
got a lifer.”
The car began to move down a sharp declivity, and, looking through the
rain-spattered wind-screen, she saw a squat, dark building ahead.
“Here we are,” he said, as the car stopped.
Looking through the window she saw, with a gasp of astonishment, that
he had spoken the truth. They were at the door of a prison. The great,
black, iron-studded gates were opening as she looked, and the car
passed through under the deep archway and stopped.
“Get down,” said Jeff, and she obeyed.
A narrow black door led from the archway, and, following her, he
caught her by the arm and pushed her through. She was in a narrow
room, the walls of which were covered with stained and discoloured
whitewash. A large fire-place, overflowing with ashes, a rickety chair
and a faded board screwed to the wall were the only furniture. In the
dim light of a carbon lamp she saw the almost indistinguishable words:
“His Majesty’s Prison, Keytown,” and beneath, row after row of closely
set regulations. A rough-looking, powerfully-built man had followed
her into the room, which was obviously the gate-keeper’s lodge.
“Have you got the cell ready?”
“Yes, I have,” said the man. “Does she want anything to eat?”
“If she does, she’ll want,” said Jeff curtly.
He took off his greatcoat and hung it on a nail, and then, with
Jeffrey’s hand gripping her arm, she was led again into the archway
and across a small courtyard, through an iron grille gate and a
further door. A solitary light that burnt in a bracket near the door,
showed her that she was in a small hall. Around this, at the height of
about nine feet from the ground, ran a gallery, which was reached by a
flight of iron stairs. There was no need to ask what was the meaning
of those two rows of black doors that punctured the wall. They were
cells. She was in a prison!
While she was wondering what it all meant, a door near at hand was
unlocked, and she was pushed in. The cell was a small one, the floor
of worn stone, but a new bedstead had been fitted up in one corner.
There was a washstand; and, as she was to discover, the cell
communicated with another containing a stone bath and wash-place.
“The condemned cell,” explained Jeffrey Legge with relish. “You’ll
have plenty of ghosts to keep you company to-night, Marney.”
In her heart she was panic-stricken, but she showed none of her fear
as she faced him.
“A ghost would be much less repulsive to me than you, Jeffrey Legge,”
she said, and he seemed taken aback by the spirit she displayed.
“You will have both,” he said, as he slammed the door on her and
locked it.
The cell was illuminated by a feeble light that came through an opaque
pane of glass by the side of the door. Presently, when her eyes grew
accustomed to the semi-darkness, she was able to take stock of her
surroundings. The prison must have been a very old one, for the walls
were at one place worn smooth, probably by the back of some condemned
unfortunate who had waited day after day for the hour of doom. She
shuddered, as her imagination called to her the agony of soul which
these four walls had held.
By standing on the bed she could reach a window. That also was of
toughened glass, set in small, rusty frames. Some of the panes were
missing, but she guessed that the outlook from the window would not be
particularly promising, even supposing she could force the window.
The night had been unusually cold and raw for the time of year, and,
pulling a blanket from the bed, she wrapped it about her and sat down
on the stool, waiting for the light to grow.
And so sitting, her weary eyes closing involuntarily, she heard a
stealthy tapping. It came from above, and her heart fluttered at the
thought that possibly, in the cell above her, her father was held… or
Johnny.
Climbing on to the bed, she rapped with her knuckles on the stone
ceiling. Somebody answered. They were tapping a message in Morse,
which she could not understand. Presently the tapping ceased. She
heard footsteps above. And then, looking by chance at the broken pane
of the window, she saw something come slowly downward and out of view.
She leapt up, gripping the window pane, and saw a piece of black silk.
With difficulty two fingers touched it at last and drew it gently in
through the window pane. She pulled it up, and, as she suspected,
found a piece of paper tied to the end.
It was a bank-note. Bewildered, she gazed at it until it occurred to
her that there might be a message written on the other side. The
pencil marks were faint, and she carried the note as near to the light
as she could get.
“_Who is there? Is it you, Peter? I am up above. Johnny._”
She suppressed the cry that rose to her lips. Both Johnny and her
father were there. Then Jeffrey had not lied.
How could she answer? She had no pencil. Then she saw that the end of
the cotton was weighted by a small piece of pencil, the kind that is
found attached to a dance programme. With this unsatisfactory medium
she wrote a reply and pushed it through the window, and after a while
she saw it drawn up. Johnny was there--and Johnny knew. She felt
strangely comforted by his presence, impotent though he was.
For half an hour she waited at the window, but now the daylight had
come, and evidently Johnny thought it was too dangerous to make any
further communications.
Exhausted, she lay down on the bed, intending to remain awake, but
within five minutes she was sleeping heavily. The sound of a key in
the lock made her spring to her feet. It was the man she had seen in
the early morning; he was carrying a big tray, set with a clumsy cup
and saucer, six slices of bread and butter, and an enormous teapot. He
put it down on the bed, for want of a table, and without a word went
out. She looked at the little platinum watch on her wrist: it was ten
o’clock. Half an hour later the man came and took away the tray.
“Where am I?” she asked.
“You’re in ‘boob,’” he said with quiet amusement. “But it is better
than any other ‘boob’ you’ve ever been in, young lady. And don’t try
to ask me questions, because you’ll not get a civil answer if you do.”
At two o’clock came another meal, a little more tastily served this
time. It seemed, from the appearance of the plate, that Jeffrey had
sent into Oxford for a new service specially for her benefit. Again
she attempted to discover what had happened to her father, but with no
more satisfactory result.
The weary day dragged through; every minute seemed an hour, every hour
interminable. Darkness had fallen again when the last of the visits
was made, and this time it was Jeffrey Legge. At the sight of his
face, all her terror turned to wonder. He was ghastly pale, his eyes
burnt strangely, and the hand that came up to his lips was trembling
as though he were suffering from a fever.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“I want you,” he said brokenly. “I want you for the life of my
father!”
“What do you mean?” she gasped.
“Peter Kane killed my father last night,” he said.
“You’re mad,” she gasped. “My father is here--you told me.”
“I told you a lie. What does it matter what I told you anyway? Peter
Kane escaped on the way to Keytown, and he went back to the club and
killed my father!”