The manacles chafed his wrists.
"Are they going to leave those things on me, now that they have me safe in jail?" he cried.
His door opened into the corridor, and he called to the guard, asking that the irons might be removed.
"I believe Hank has gone fer ther key," said the guard "He didn't take it from ther detective what put them irons on yer."
"Will they be removed when he returns with the key?"
"I reckon."
"Then I hope he will hurry. I am tired of carrying the things."
He turned back, to pace the cell once more.
"This is a flimsily-constructed building," he said. "It would be an easy thing to break in here and drag a prisoner out. I escaped death at the hands of the mob because I had friends at hand to fight for me, and because Hank Kildare is utterly fearless, and was determined to bring me here. But the whole town may become aroused, and to-night—— What if Robert Dawson should die!"
The thought fairly staggered him, for he knew the death of the wounded banker would again inflame the passions of the citizens, and a night raid might be made on the jail.