"No; not exactly," replied the warden. "But I judged it was more a general breakdown than anything else. He appeared to be quite concerned about her."
"Hum!" remarked Doctor Kreelmar uncompromisingly. "Did he ask after Varge?"
"No; not that I remember," the warden answered. "No; I don't think he did."
"Knows he's got away, of course?" snapped the little doctor.
"I'm sure I don't know," said the warden. "Probably—if he reads the papers. Why?"
"Why, why?" echoed the tempestuous little man sharply. "God bless my soul, Rand, things have come to a pretty pass if a man has to have a reason for everything he says! I don't know why. Varge has been gone five days now, and perhaps I was wondering if we could count on Merton's prayers along with ours to make it fifty—years."
"Ours?"—the warden repeated the word mechanically. He had glanced down, and his fingers were beating a nervous, rustling little tattoo on the newspaper.
"Yes—ours!" said Doctor Kreelmar; biting off the word belligerently. "Janet's and mine, and most of all—yours. Duty's a high-flown, ennobling sort of word, but it's got the dangdest set of prickles hanging around it—worse'n a bunch of thistles. What's the punishment for a lifer that breaks prison? Can't keep him on a few extra years after he's dead, can you? But he has to be punished, doesn't he—in some other way. And what's he get, eh, what's he get?—you ought to know. Nice kettle of fish it would be, you putting the screws onto the man we've got to thank for this young
