we left in the cell told me he'd want this room. Try that door!"
He pointed to a tall press and Malinkoff was there in a second. The press was evidently used for the storage of stationery. There was one shelf, half way up, laden with packages of paper, and Malinkoff lifted one end. The other slipped and the packets dropped with a crash. But the purring of the auto in the yard was noisy enough to drown the sound unless somebody was outside the door.
"Three can squeeze in—you go first, Mr. Hay."
It was more than a squeeze, it was a torture, but the door closed on them.
Malcolm had an insane desire to laugh, but he checked it at the sound of a voice—for it was the voice of Boolba.
"I cannot stay very long, comrade," he was saying as he entered the room, "but . . ."
The rest was a mumble.
"I will see that she is kept by herself," said a strange voice, evidently of someone in authority at the prison.
Malcolm bit his lips to check the cry that rose. "Irene!"
". . ." Boolba's deep voice was again a rumble.
"Yes, comrade, I will bring her in . . . let me lead you to a chair."
