“The Governor of the prison has a little clock just the same as that in his private room,” he said. “Do you know, I’m afraid all the time that I’m going to wake up from this and find myself back there.”
He jerked his torn garments together.
“Guess I’d better be going, though. I’ve stayed far too long already. I feel rested now.”
“Won’t you finish your story first?” pleaded Eileen. “I think you are safer here––for a while longer––than you would be outside. It won’t hurt to let those horrid, prying, suspicious creatures get well away from here.”
“I have already said more than I intended to,” he remarked.
The pair presented a strange contrast as they sat opposite each other in the lamplight; the one, wet-eyed, sympathetic and earnest; the other, gaunt, indignant and breathless as he gasped out his story with the hunger of one to whom sympathy was a rediscovered friend.
“Where was I at?” he asked. “Ah, yes!
“The Governor’s dirty-worker wouldn’t listen when I tried to explain. He ordered me back.
“At work in the office next day, I took advantage of a warder’s slackness and broke clear away.