He led the way down the corridor, Sargent following him closely. At the far end, the jailer turned toward him, eying his slight figure and halting gait deprecatingly.
"Shall I leave the door open and wait for you out here? He's a mighty tough customer—at least he was up to to-day. He's been as quiet as a lamb since they brought him back from the courthouse. I don't know if you'll be safe in there with him, for he's lots bigger than you. He might take a notion to hurt you."
Sargent moved to the door impatiently. "I do not fear him, and you need not wait at the door. Bar it on the outside, and do not come until I call for you. Now—let me in."
The jailer put his hand on the bolts—then hesitated.
"Here—I have it. Put this pistol in your pocket—so—and you can keep him at a safe distance. Don't let him see it unless he comes at you—it's as much as my place is worth. There you are—now!"
The bolt slid back, the chain fell to the floor, and Sargent passed through the opened door.
The room was small, its whitewashed walls giving out a dank odour. A narrow bunk, a table and chair were the only furnishings. One window, covered with bars, let in the light of the brilliant sky dotted with innumerable stars. At the table, scribbling on some coarse paper in the feeble glow of a candle, sat the prisoner—Jacob Phelps.
He looked up as Sargent entered; then, as if slowly recognizing him, he rose from the table and stood looking at him with the dull expression which had come into his eyes during the trial.
"So you've come, have you? I kinder thought you would."
Sargent met his glance steadily. "You said you wanted to see me."