The inspector looked at the man from Scotland Yard, and scratched his head.
“That’s all, I think,” Anthony said. “Can I see the prisoner now?”
Chapter XII.
Exhibits
The door of the cell clanged to behind Boyd. From a chair, Deacon unfolded his bulk to greet Anthony. They shook hands.
“Wasn’t long before I yelled for you,” the criminal grinned. “Take the chair. I’ll squat on the gent’s bedding.”
Anthony sat, running his eye over the cell. There was the chair he sat on, the truckle bed, a tinware wash-stand, a shelf, a dressing-case of Deacon’s, and, in one corner, a large brown-paper parcel.
“Pretty snug, brother, isn’t it?” Deacon smiled. “I languish in comfort. ’D’ve been pretty glad of this at times during the recent fracas in France. I say, wouldn’t you like to write the story of my life? Some Criminals I have Known: Number One—The Abbotshall Murderer. You know the sort of thing.”
Anthony laughed. “Well, you take it easily enough. I’m afraid I should alternate fury and depression.”
For a moment Deacon’s blue eyes met his; and in them Anthony saw a kind of despairing horror. But only for the half of a second. And then the old laughing look was in them again. More than ever, Anthony felt admiration and a desperate desire to get this large man out of this small cell; to make him free again—as free as the hot, gleaming streak of the setting sun which pierced the little barred window and painted a broad line of gold upon the drab floor. But to get him out one must work.
“What about those finger-prints?” he asked suddenly.