“Your friend is in jail here on charge of murder. Will be taken to city to-night for trial.” It had been signed, “A Friend,” but this had been much scratched over and was almost illegible. Steve read the words again and again. Suddenly he left his office and walked quickly around the back part of the court-green, looking in all the corners and dark places. It had occurred to him that he had heard someone retreating as he approached his office. Everything, however was quiet, and the only sound he heard was that of a horse galloping on the road some distance away. As he stood still to listen again it died away. In a few minutes he had called his friend Helford into his office and laid before him his information. Helford received it coldly—thought it might be a trick to throw them off the track and obtain delay. He argued that even if it would have been possible for Rupert Gray to be put in jail right under their noses, he could not have been kept there all day without its being discovered. Steve was of a different opinion. Perdue, the jailer, was a creature of Leech’s and Still’s. Something assured him that the information was true, and he laid his plans accordingly. The men who were at the county seat were requested to wait, without being told what was the reason; riders were sent off to call in the searchers who were still engaged, a rendezvous near the village being appointed. Steve, leaving the men present under charge of Helford, rode off as if to continue the search; but a short distance down the road he turned, and, riding back by another way, tied his horse and returned to the court-green. He entered at the rear, walked up to the jail and rang the bell. After some delay a man peeped at him through the wicket and asked who it was. Steve gave his name, and said he wanted to see the prisoner who had been brought in the night before. The man hesitated a second, then said there was no such prisoner there. He took a half step backward to close the shutter, but Steve was too quick for him. He was sure from the jailer’s manner that he was lying to him. The next second there was a scraping sound on the grating and the man found a pistol-barrel gleaming at him through the bars, right under his nose.
“Stir, and you are a dead man,” said Steve. “Open the door.”
“I ain’t got the keys.”
“Call for them. Don’t stir! I’ll give you till I count five: one—two—three——”
“Here they are, sir.” The pistol-barrel was shining right in his face, and Steve’s eyes were piercing him through the bars. He unlocked the door, and Steve stepped in.
“Take me to Mr. Gray’s cell instantly, and remember a single word from you means your death.” Steve expected to be taken to one of the front rooms in which the prisoners of better condition were usually kept; but his guide went on, and at length stopped at the door of one of the worst cells in the place, where the most abandoned criminals were usually confined. Two negro prisoners, in another cell, seeing Captain Allen, howled at him in glee through their bars.
“You don’t mean to say that you’ve put him in here?” Steve asked, sternly.
“That’s orders,” said the man, and added, explanatorily, as he fumbled at the lock. “You see, he was pretty wild when they brought him here.”
“Don’t defend it,” said Steve, in a voice which brought the turnkey up shaking.