The Bristol Badger was in prison.
The turnkey unlocked another door and disappeared. In a few moments he returned, dismissed the constable, and ordered the prisoner to follow him.
They entered a snow-white corridor, which was lined with iron doors, and above with galleries, also of iron, bright and polished.
Gregson was placed in a cell, for some time in the company of a single turnkey, who stood by him, rigid and voiceless as a statue, watchful as a lynx.
The “cracksman” assumed an air of dejection, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground.
He had only partially recovered from his wound. From this a vast number of shots had been extracted; but several more, it was thought, still remained in the flesh.
The burning pain in his chest had not entirely left him, although it was not nearly so insupportable as at first.
Presently the door of the cell opened, and a gentleman in plain clothes came in. He had a ruddy complexion, with a brown moustache and beard.
Gregson recognised him immediately. He was the governor.
The recognition was mutual.