"I've brought ye B14, sir."
"Why don't you show him in, then?"
"Well, sir, I'm thinking he's no' altogether to be trustit. I thought maybe if ye'd permit me to be in the room—"
"Trusted? Nonsense, man! I'm not made of glass. Bring him in at once." And as Mackenzie turned reluctantly to obey, the Governor added: "You can stand in a corner and see fair play, if you like. But I don't think a little whippersnapper like our friend would make much of it if he tried to tackle me, eh, Mackenzie?"
"Well, sir, maybe no," said Mackenzie, with his slow smile.
Captain Harding, a lean Anglo-Indian, all bone and sinew, got up and posted himself with his hands under his coattails, back to the fire. He felt the cold, and there was a blaze in his grate on many a chilly summer evening. His room was comfortably furnished with a Turkey carpet and deep leather arm-chairs. To many a prisoner it had seemed a glimpse of paradise. B14, however, took no notice; his apathetic face did not change, only he edged surreptitiously towards the hearth. "You can come near the fire if you like," said Harding, eyeing him sharply; and as Gardiner stumbled forward he put a hand on his shoulder. "What's the matter with you? Are you sick?"
Gardiner raised his eyes; in their darkness shone a metallic feral glare. "I'm perfectly well," he said, on the sullen verge of insolence.
"He's for the hospital, sir," said Mackenzie from the background, with an apologetic cough.
"Sit down," said the Governor shortly. He sat down himself, at his table, and turned over some papers. "Your name is Henry de la Cruz Gardiner?"