Paul Ritson—let him be known by his official number no more—was not taken to the punishment cells. He was set to work with the stone-dressing gang stationed near the gate of the prison. The news of his attempt to escape had not spread more rapidly than rumors of his approaching departure.
"I say," shouted a hoary convict, "take a crooked message out?"
"What's your message?"
"On'y a word to the old girl telling her where she'll find a bunch of keys as she wants partic'lar."
"Write her yourself, my man."
"What, and the governor read it, and me get a bashing, and the crushers pinch the old moll? Well, I am surprised at ye; but I forgot, you're a straight man, you are."
A mocking laugh followed this explanatory speech.
A young fellow with a pale, meek face and the startled eyes of a hare crept close up to where Paul Ritson worked, and took a letter out of one of his boots.
"This is the last I had from home," he said, quietly, and put the letter into Paul's hands.
It was a soiled and crumpled paper, so greasy from frequent handlings and so much worn by many foldings that the writing could scarcely be deciphered. Home? It was dated from the Union of Liverpool, and had come from his invalid wife and his children, all living there.