“Yes sir,” returned Kinsley.
“Here he is,” said the Doctor, pointing to me. “How did he get out?”
Kinsley, who had not before observed my presence, started back, turned pale, and said: “I—I—don’t know.”
“Go and see,” said the Doctor.
Glad to get out of my presence, Kinsley ran up stairs, and in a minute or so returned, and reported what had been done.
Now, if the Doctor had possessed the heart of a human being he would have suspended his persecutions, after that—in a word, would have “let up” on me—but he seemed entirely impervious to good jokes, practical or otherwise, and was more than ever determined to punish me.
“Sergeant,” said he, no doubt thinking he was perpetrating a joke—but I couldn’t see it—“Smith wants a room lower down, he says. I think we can accommodate him. Put him in the cellar!”
There was, in the basement, a dark apartment with an iron door—the same room in which crazy Thomas had been confined—and that was the “room lower down” assigned me on this melancholy occasion.
“Will you go?” said Kinsley, standing off at a respectful distance: “Or will it be necessary to call the guard?”
“It will be necessary to call the guard,” I replied, folding up my paper, arising and taking a hostile attitude.