9009 low three or four times with the motion of a bird drinking—“or lookin’ to kill ye because he thinks ye’ve stooled on him!” he finished with sudden passion.
A stripes-clad man was coming out of the turnkey’s office. “The bath-trusty” whispered the garotter, immediately resuming his cringing posture; “he’s come for us.” The bath-trusty was dressed as the man Collins had seen at the gate, but his hair, instead of being cropped close, like the other’s, was of medium length. He was scanning a slip of paper in his hand, and in his sharp face, bent to read, Collins fancied he saw the shadow of what he had seen in the face of the convict by the gate. As the man looked up at him, the impression was confirmed. The man had rat eyes.
He waved his hand to them authoritatively. “Come on,” he said, and turned his back. They followed, the garotter first, and behind John Collins, the murderer, still silent, as though dazed. They went through a hallway and up an iron flight of stairs to a room into which warm
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