On a bed in the further corner of the room, Talham Tabbs was lying. It was the first time that Joe had had a chance to examine his face closely and he embraced the opportunity.
It was by no means an unpleasant face nor did it bear any marks of criminality. It was long and lean, but the features were good. If Joe had passed him on the street and noticed him at all, he would have set him down as a keen business or professional man. The only thing at all queer or abnormal were his eyes, that, as he turned them on his visitors, glowed beneath his eyebrows like twin coals.
His glance passed indifferently over the warden, but when he caught sight of Joe there was a flash of recognition. And what surprised Joe was that the recognition was a friendly one. There was no glint of malice or revenge. It was clear that he did not know that it was Joe’s hand that had brought about his downfall, and again Joe had that half remorseful twinge that bothered him before, although his common sense told him he had acted rightly.
This feeling was intensified when Tabbs favored him with a solemn wink and then raised his left hand and twiddled the fingers as Joe had done yesterday. Joe was stumped for a minute, but quickly recovered himself and returned the signal. Then Tabbs went through the same flummery with his right hand, then with both hands, and would have concluded the ritual by turning his back to Joe, if the attempt to do so had not revealed that he was strapped to the bed.
Hank Bailey all this time had looked on with growing bewilderment.
“What does all this monkey business mean?” he demanded, helplessly.
Joe nudged him with his foot.
“It’s all right,” he affirmed. “Mr. Tabbs is a member of the same lodge with me, and because we are brothers he’s going to tell me all about what happened yesterday.”
A doubtful look came into Tabbs’ face.
“How can I with him here,” he asked, pointing to the warden. “He isn’t a member, and he might give away our secrets if we talked them over before him.”