"It was a good-sized room," pursued Stannard, taking the cellophane wrapper off the cigar, "though with not a very high ceiling, as in the condemned cell. Its walls were brick painted white, pretty dirty, with two small barred windows near the top of the opposite side.
"I picked this up, detail by detail, with my light In the centre of the floor, which was stone, I saw the gallows-trap: two big oblong wooden panels, fitting closely together and set flush with the floor-level. They would drop together when you pulled a lever. An iron beam stretched across the ceiling just over this trap. In the left-hand corner — concealed from a condemned man as he entered by the opening door — was a rather large vertical lever which controlled the drop.
"My dear Drake, do you remember the feel of the condemned cell just over’ the way? Yes; I can see you do. Well, this was worse. I had expected that. As soon as I opened the door of that execution shed, the whole room seemed to jump at me. It did not like visitors."
Chief Inspector Masters interrupted harshly.
"Just a minute, sir!"
"Yes?"
Masters had to shake his own head to clear it of a spell. Like the mist on the countryside that morning, this dim-lighted drawing-room became invaded with the shapes and sounds of Pentecost Prison.
"I ask you!" persisted Masters "What kind of talk is that?’
"It is true talk, Inspector. Write it down."
"As you like, sir."