The next moment Hugh Ritson stepped into the office. His eyes dropped, and his infirm foot trailed heavily along the floor. He twitched at his coat with nervous fingers; his nostrils quivered; his whole body trembled perceptibly.
"This is the man," said the chief warder, with a deferential bow.
Hugh Ritson tried to raise his eyes, but they fell suddenly. He opened his lips to speak, but the words would not come. And meantime the wet, soiled, naked, close-cropped, blood-stained convict, flanked by armed warders, stood before him with head erect and eyes that searched his soul. The convict rested one hand on his hip and pointed with the other at Hugh Ritson's abject figure.
"What does this man want with me?" he said, and his voice was deep.
At that Hugh Ritson broke in impetuously:
"Paul, I will not outrage your sufferings by offering you my pity."
The officers looked into each other's faces.
"I want none of your pity!" said the convict, bitterly.
"No; it is I who need yours," said Hugh Ritson, in a low tone.
The convict laughed a hard laugh, and turned to the warders.