upon which they sat, while the sheriff unlocked the cuffs from their wrists and then with his deputies entered the turnkey’s office. The murderer was breathing thickly, like a man asleep. The garotter was silent for a moment. Then he stretched forth his arms rubbing his wrists with his hands, and laughed harshly.
“Same old mill!” he cried; and then, in a jeering voice to Collins, “Yes, take yer gapins now, you rum; ye’ll see enough of it before ye’re done with it!”
John Collins was looking about him. His eyes fell upon a little garden in the centre of the court. A fountain was playing upon red flowers. But he was still pondering on the expression of the convict of the gate. He could not forget the look, and he could not explain it. It was a look bearing fear, and giving fear. It was the look of a rat. A rat! That was it. A look such as one gets from a rat in a dusky corner.
The murderer was staring dully, past the red flowers and the jetting water which he did not see, staring at the gray walls beyond which he
