"That is sufficient, Major Hardinge. I forgive you from my heart. Perhaps you too will take my hand."
The Major took it--rather awkwardly--much more awkwardly than the chief warder had done. When the chaplain relinquished it, he turned aside, and picking up his coat, began to put it on--scarcely with that air of dignity which is proper to a prison inspector.
"I presume," continued Mr. Hewett, "that we all allow that what has occurred has been owing to the malign influence of the man Oliver Mankell?"
There was silence. Apparently they did not all allow it even yet: it was a pill to swallow.
"Hypnotism," muttered the doctor, half aside.
"Hypnotism! I believe that the word simply expresses some sort of mesmeric power--hardly a sufficient explanation in the present case."
"I would suggest, Major Hardinge," interposed the governor, "all theorising aside, that the man be transferred to another prison at the earliest possible moment."
"He shall be transferred to-morrow," affirmed the Major. "If there is anything in Mr. Hewett's suggestion, the fellow shall have a chance to prove it--in some other jail. Oh, good Lord! Don't! He's killing me! Help--p!"
"Hardinge!" exclaimed the doctor; "what's the matter now?"
There seemed to be something the matter. The Major had been delivering himself in his most pompously official manner. Suddenly he put his hands to the pit of his stomach, and began to cry out as if in an ecstacy of pain, his official manner altogether gone.