And to the amazement of the onlookers, the keeper opened his eyes in a dazed, uncomprehending sort of way, threw his feet over the edge of the bed, and sat up.
“What is it? Where have I been?” he asked, looking about him. And then he added, in astonishment: “What—what am I doing here?”
“You’ve been taking a long nap, but you’re all right now, Bradley,” the detective assured him. “You remember what happened, don’t you?”
For a few moments the man’s face was blank, but soon a look of shamed understanding, mingled with resentment, overspread it.
“It was that cursed Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen!” he exclaimed, giving Grantley’s prison number. “He called to me, while I was making my rounds—was it last night?”
Nick nodded, and the keeper went on:
“What do you know about that! Is he gone?”
This time it was the warden who replied.
“Yes, he’s skipped, Bradley; but we know he was down in New York later in the night, and Carter here can be counted on to bring him back, sooner or later.”
Kennedy had begun mildly enough, owing to the experience which his subordinate had so recently undergone, but, at this point, the autocrat in him got the better of his sympathy.