"He was locked up with the rest to-night and we got sort of quiet and comfortable here and I was having a game of pinochle with Tom Doyle when one of our boarders in murderers' row lets out a howl. Course I went to see what it was, and there was the Dago—croaked!"
"What did it?" asked Donovan.
"We don't know. Doc Warren's in now giving him the once-over."
"Did he have any visitors to-day?" asked the colonel.
"Yes, a fellow like himself—Indian I reckon. But we didn't let him further than the corridor. It wasn't visiting day for the fellows in his row, so the Dago left a package and went away."
"What was in the package?" the colonel questioned further.
"Oh, just some cigarettes. Singa Phut didn't like the kind we keep, and he had to have his own fancy kind. He's had 'em before, so we knew they was all right."
"Was that all?"
"Every blessed thing that was in the package. So we let him have the cigarettes. That was about four o'clock. He was dead at eight. Here comes the doctor now. Maybe he can tell you something."
Doctor Warren, rubbing his hands to get rid of the lint from the warden's towel, came along settling himself into his coat which he had removed the better to examine the body of the East Indian.