"What shall I tell him. Mr. Woods?" I ask.
"Nothing! Get back to your cell."
"Perhaps you'd better go up and take a look, Scot," the Deputy suggests.
Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18 C, and returns.
"Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in the morning."
A middle-aged prisoner, with confident bearing and polished manner, enters from the yard. It is the "French Count," one of the clerks in the "front office."
"Good morning, gentlemen," he greets the officers. He leans familiarly over the Deputy's chair, remarking: "I've been hunting half an hour for you. The Captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you."
The Deputy hurriedly rises. "Where is he?" he asks anxiously.
"In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about?"