Drexel stepped from his sleigh, his nerves as taut as violin strings, and crossed to the prison entrance. Suddenly from the blackness overhead there rushed down a wild tumult of bells. He stood frozen in his tracks. This was the signal, the alarm! He looked to see every door burst open and belch out scores of guards.
The next moment his heart beat again. That horrific alarm was only the chimes of the Fortress Cathedral hymning “Glory to God in Zion,” and announcing that it was three of the night.
He put his guards in charge of the van, then crossed the court and entered the governor’s office. Colonel Kavelin, who sat at his desk smoking a cigarette and making an erasure in a record with a big knife, stood stiffly up. Drexel glanced keenly into the broad bearded face. There was a glint to the sharp beady eyes that boded unpleasantness. Had he telephoned?
“Captain Laroque?” queried the governor.
Drexel put on a formidable look to match his name, one part brutality to one part swagger.
“At your service, Colonel Kavelin,” he returned, holding himself ready to make a dash out of the door. “I suppose you know my business. You had a message from the administrator of prisons?”
“I had two,” growled the governor.
“Two!” Drexel backed nearer the door.
“Yes, two.”
“The second—when did you get it?”