Doctor Kreelmar, then rested on the note in the warden's hand. A pitiful smile quivered on her lips and she shook her head.
"Not now," she said in a low, unnatural voice. "Not now—don't ask me now. I did not think you would find that before you went to bed."
"Janet, you are ill—you are sick," said the warden, greatly distressed. "Kreelmar, you—"
"No," she said mechanically. "Not sick, not ill; I am only—very tired. Please do not worry about me, dad. I—I think I will go to my room."
She turned toward the door—and stopped. A dawning something crept into her face—a hope—a fear—her hands, at her sides now, clenched tightly. Some one was running hurriedly outside—running up the veranda steps. Varge!—had Varge come back—had something kept him from reaching the bridge, and he had come back—here?
The bell rang perfunctorily; but the outer door was open, and, without waiting for a response, a blue-coated prison guard stepped across the hall to the doorway of the sitting-room and saluted.
"Seven-seventy-seven's given himself up, sir," he panted, out of breath. "Came back ten minutes ago, sir."
For an instant it was as though the hush of death had fallen upon the room—and upon the guard's face came an awe-struck, frightened look as he gazed about him. The warden was staring at him; Doctor Kreelmar was staring at him—the warden's arms had been outstretched toward his daughter, and as though he had been turned suddenly to stone he stood rigidly in that
