“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.
“What the devil did you mean, though, by going into his cell, keys and all, like a confounded imbecile?” he demanded harshly. “Isn’t that the first thing you had drilled into that reënforced-concrete dome of yours—not to give any of these fellows a chance to jump you when you have your keys with you? If you hadn’t fallen for his little game——”
“But I didn’t fall for nothing, warden!” the keeper interrupted warmly. “I didn’t go into his cell at all. I know better than that, believe me!”
“You didn’t—what? What are you trying to put over, Bradley?” Kennedy burst out. “You were found in his cell, with the door unlocked and the keys gone, not to mention Number Sixty Thousand One Hundred and Thirteen, curse him! Maybe that ain’t proof.”
“It ain’t proof,” insisted the keeper, “no matter how it looks. He called to me, and I started toward the grating to see what he wanted. He fixed his eyes on me, like he was looking me through and through, and made some funny motions with his hands. I’ll swear that’s all I remember. If I was found in his cell, I don’t know how I got there, or anything about it, so help me!”
The warden started to give Bradley another tongue-lashing, but Nick interposed.