Dr. Marriott went to the door opposite to the one he had pointed out as the death-chamber.
He moved aside a hanging disc of metal on a level with his eyes, and peered through a glass-covered spy-hole into the condemned cell.
After a scrutiny of some seconds, he slid the disc into its place and rapped softly upon the door. Almost immediately it was opened a foot or so, silently, as the door of a sick-room is opened by one who watches within. There was a whispered confabulation, and a warder came out.
"This gentleman," said the Medical Officer, "as you have already been informed by the Governor, is to have an interview with the convict absolutely alone. You, and the man with you, are to sit just outside the cell and to keep it under continual observation through the glass. If you think it necessary you are to enter the cell at once. And at the least gesture of this gentleman you will do so too. But otherwise, Dr. Morton Sims is to be left alone with the prisoner for an hour. You quite understand?"
"Perfectly, sir."
"You anticipate no trouble?—how is he?"
"Quiet as a lamb, sir. There's no fear of any trouble with him. He's cheerful and he's been talking a lot about himself—about his violin playing mostly, and a week he had in Paris. His hands are twitching a bit, but less than usual with them."
"Very well. Jones will remain here and will fetch me at once if I am wanted. Now take Dr. Morton Sims in."
The door was opened. A gust of hot air came from within as Morton Sims hesitated for a moment upon the threshold.
The warm air, indeed, was upon his face, but once again the chill was at his heart. Lean and icy fingers seemed to grope about it.