The coffee incident flashes through my mind. Loathing and hatred of the tall guard fill my being. For a second I hesitate. I must hide the spoon. I cannot afford to lose it—not to this brute—
"Cap'n, here!"
I am dragged from the cell. The tall keeper carefully examines the spoon, a malicious grin stealing over his face.
"Look, Cap'n. Sharp as a razor. Pretty desp'rate, eh?"
"Take him to the Deputy, Mr. Fellings."
III
In the rotunda, connecting the north and south cell-houses, the Deputy stands at a high desk. Angular and bony, with slightly stooped shoulders, his face is a mass of minute wrinkles seamed on yellow parchment. The curved nose overhangs thin, compressed lips. The steely eyes measure me coldly, unfriendly.
"Who is this?"
The low, almost feminine, voice sharply accentuates the cadaver-like face and figure. The contrast is startling.
"A 7."