“It was all arranged that you were to come out now,” insists the astonished P. K., getting more and more serious and perturbed. I shouldn’t wonder if he thinks I’ve gone bughouse.
“Yes, but Mr. Grant was to come for me, and he——”
“Well, Mr. Grant told me to come for you, and it’s all right,” urges the anxious official.
I look up at him with what must be a tolerably obstinate expression of countenance. “I don’t want to leave at present,” I remark quietly, “and I shall stay here until Mr. Grant comes.”
The P. K. looks at me for a moment as if he would like to order his attendant officer to haul me out by the scruff of the neck. Then he shakes his head in a hopeless fashion, and without another word bangs to and locks the grated door. The light is extinguished, and we hear the inner door shut and locked; footsteps resound faintly along the stone corridor, and the outer door is shut and locked.
“Hello, Tom!” This from Number Four.
“Hello!”
“Who was that? What did they want?”
“It was the P. K. He came to let me out.”
“Come to let you out; and you didn’t go? Gee! I wish they’d try it on me. What did you tell ’em?”