Mr. Bascombe, who still seemed to be suffering from the shock, raised his glass a second time and took two or three long, deliberate sips.
"How did the beggar get away?" he inquired, setting it down again with a deep breath.
"Well, sir, it seems as how, b-being a scene-painter by trade, the warders had taken him down to the Recreation Rooms to p-paint a bit o' stuff for the p-p-play they're doing next week. They left him for a minute in the room behind the stage, and when they came back they found he'd f-forced the door and slipped out."
"Careless! careless!" interpolated Mr. Bascombe, filling up his glass.
"Yes, sir, but the amazing thing is, what's happened to him? Being in c-c-convict clothes, one would think he must have been spotted directly he showed his nose outside."
A slow smile stole across Mr. Bascombe's face.
"It's a fair puzzler," he admitted. "If he'd got some sort of a disguise like, now, one could understand it; but——"
There was a clatter of hoofs, and several uniformed men on horseback galloped past the hotel. The landlord ran to the window.
"There g-goes the civil g-g-guard," he stammered.
Mr. Bascombe again raised his glass.