For some time the three sat silent on the bench before the garden, with its fountain playing upon the red flowers. The garotter’s head, now, was bent like the murderer’s, and he was muttering to himself. He straightened suddenly, touching Collins’s elbow with his hand.
“Listen, pal,” he said hoarsely; “I’ll wise you to a thing or two.” His thick lips trembled loosely. “It’s the cons; watch them. The cons”—he looked up into Collins’s face almost appealingly, as though begging permission to rid himself of a weight. “The guards—they’re bad enough; God knows they’re all bad in this hell-hole. But the cons—they’re devils.” His grip upon Collins’s elbow tightened. “Every wan of them’s ready to give ye the worst of it some way, to job ye if he can; every wan of them is stoolin’ on the other”—he gulped oddly, seemed to swal-
[11]
