"Only the Governor, sir," said the warder who had fetched me. "There's not a man but him amongst us that ever seen this opened."
He was wrong there, I could have told him; but held my tongue, for obvious reasons.
"I want it opened. Will one of you feel in his pockets?"
Not a soul stirred. Even had not sense of discipline precluded, that of a certain inhuman atmosphere made fearful creatures of them all.
"Then," said I, "I must do it myself."
I turned once more to the stiff-strung figure, had actually put hand on it, when an exclamation from Vokins arrested me.
"There's a key—there, sir!" he said—"stickin' out yonder between its feet."
Sure enough there was—Johnson's, no doubt, that had been shot from its socket by the clapping to of the door, and afterwards kicked aside by the warder in his convulsive struggles.
I stooped, only too thankful for the respite, and drew it forth. I had seen it but once before, yet I recognised it at a glance.
Now, I confess, my heart felt ill as I slipped the key into the wards, and a sickness of resentment at the tyranny of Fate in making me its helpless minister surged up in my veins. Once, with my fingers on the iron loop, I paused, and ventured a fearful side glance at the figure whose crookt elbow almost touched my face; then, strung to the high pitch of inevitability, I shot the lock, pushed at the door, and in the act, made a back leap into the corridor.