He could examine the lock the next day as he went out, and if the needle was still there it would be a proof that the door had not been locked.
The contrivance was an ingenious one, but then we should remember that men whose lives are at stake have their wits sharpened in a remarkable degree.
Chudley returned to his cell. He opened his books, disfigured them with notes on the margin, much to the disgust of the librarian, and littered them together as if he had been diligently employed with them; but he was too excited to read; he could not even sit or remain still for any length of time; he paced to and fro, thinking and muttering to himself.
By day and by night the same thought haunted him.
At dusk a turnkey came in and lighted his gas. As soon as he heard the key in the lock he sprang to his stool, and was poring over his books before the door was opened.
He had the cunning of the serpent, and flattered himself that he could assume anything or conceal anything while the great lock was being turned by the gaoler.
“It is a most fortunate thing the lock makes such a noise when turned,” he murmured. “I do hope they won’t oil it.”
But as yet he did not see his way clear for the accomplishment of his object.
The whole of that night, and on the following day also, he was cudgelling his brains for some solution to the grand and all-important question.
It seemed almost like wasting precious time, but he knew that it would be folly to begin working with his hands till his plans were matured and his calculations had been fully made.