MacKeenon, of Scotland Yard, stood in the very center of the courtyard. At the inspector’s feet a yellow kit-bag rested. Over the Scot’s right arm a plaid overcoat hung. Within the detective’s light-blue eyes there sparkled the dry twinkle of recognition.
Chester Fay moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue. He hesitated, then advanced step by step. He had last seen Inspector MacKeenon on the witness dais of the September Assizes. It was the Scot’s testimony concerning a certain finger-print which had carried the staid British jury. Such a trifle!
A sandy-colored hand crept up to MacKeenon’s chin and covered his mouth. The eyes closed to narrow slits. It was like a sly old dog warning another, not so sly, not near so old. Chester Fay understood. He turned toward the turnkey who had brought him out.
“Follow me, sir,� he heard him say.
The way led across the courtyard, through a low stone arch and into a Bertillon room, then to where a cold shower splashed upon well-scoured flags. The turnkey pointed to the descending water. Fay stripped, tossed the hated clothes away from him, lathed his lean, long-limbed body and mopped his silver-gray hair. It had been brown when he had entered the castellated gate, five long years before the unexpected coming of Inspector MacKeenon.
The clothes the turnkey brought had evidently come out of the yellow kit-bag. They fitted. They were of
price and rich texture. There were also the little things which a gentleman carries—a flat, gold watch, a set of studs and cuff-links, a pearl pin and a neat cigarette case which contained six cigarettes.
Fay accepted all these things with the abstract air of one born lucky. He did not understand the meaning of it all. Discharged prisoners, or those released by order of the Home Secretary, were fitted with H.M.P. garments made of shoddy by piece-work convicts whose hearts were elsewhere when they worked.
“Hall ready, sir?� asked the red-faced guard with strange civility.
Fay lifted his slender shoulders slightly, adjusted his cuffs, touched his cravat and faced the light which streamed in through the Bertillon room. He did not answer the turnkey. The sovereign contempt of a caged eagle was in his glance.