"What for?"
"You can see for yourself. Shall we go?"
From a bulging pocket he produced three flattish electric lanterns, of the sort carried on the belt by a policeman. Taking one himself, Stannard handed, the second to Martin and the third to Ricky.
As they approached the high iron gates, the bright pale-white beams of the lamps flickered and roved. They touched the spikes atop the brick wait They swept past the lettering. 'Fiat Justitia, MDCCCXCVI,' carved in stone over the doors. They raked the ground. Except for the ruts of heavy Army lorries trundling paper-bales, no approach marred Pentecost's weedy gravel.
From his other side pocket—"Don't worry; I oiled the lock this afternoon!" Stannard brought out an immense old-fashioned key, rust-coloured but not rusty. To his annoyance he had to use two hands in turning it. Then the lock clicked with a heavy snap like a game-trap.
"Now!" he ordered, a little out of breath. "One of you at each door. Push!"
The big doors moved soundlessly (oiled hinges too?), and fairly easily. The breath of the prison, which at one time might not have been too pleasant, blew out at them. Now it was only a thick warmth overlaid by a mustiness of dried paper-bales. A little way ahead then’ lights caught a large arched barrier of vertical bars, with an opening in it like an ordinary door.
"Swing the gates shut," called Stannard. "We don't want intruders."
Martin and Ricky, their lamps hooked on their belts, complied. Inside they saw a heavy and complicated pattern of bolts, which they did not touch. The next moment they were shut up inside Pentecost
Nerves sang a little more thinly, pulse-beats were a trifle faster.