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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
Edgar Wallace's "Room 13" is a riveting exploration of crime and human ambition, drawing readers into a labyrinthine plot that unfolds within the eerie confines of a deserted hotel. The narrative style is distinctly cinematic, marked by swift pacing and vivid imagery, echoing the early 20th-century trend of sensationalist literature. Wallace masterfully weaves elements of mystery and suspense, all while grounding the story in the socio-political context of post-World War I Britain, where anxieties about morality and social order were at the forefront of public consciousness. Edgar Wallace, a prolific English writer, was not only a pioneer of the thriller genre but also a journalist and screenwriter whose life experiences profoundly influenced his writing. His early exposure to the gritty realities of life in London's underbelly, combined with his journalistic instincts, endowed him with an acute awareness of the darker aspects of human nature. Wallace's unique blend of realism and imaginative storytelling has left an indelible mark on the genre, making him one of the most significant figures in British literature. "Room 13" is highly recommended for readers who appreciate intricate plots and psychological depth. With its compelling narrative and atmospheric tension, this novel invites you to journey through the shadows of human motivation, making it a must-read for fans of classic crime fiction and anyone interested in the evolution of the thriller genre. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Room 13
Table of Contents
Introduction
An ordinary door marked by a number becomes a crucible where secrecy, ambition, and the machinery of crime converge, and the thin veneer of respectability is tested by the competing claims of law, luck, and ruthless will, turning a private threshold into the stage for public consequences.
Room 13 is a crime novel by Edgar Wallace, a prolific British writer whose name became synonymous with fast-paced popular thrillers in the early twentieth century. Situated within the broad landscape often called the Golden Age of British crime fiction, the book’s milieu is urban and nocturnal, attentive to the transactions and temptations of modern city life. Its place in Wallace’s oeuvre showcases his gift for combining suspense with accessibility, producing stories that move swiftly while remaining grounded in recognizable social settings. Readers encounter a world of policemen, criminals, and intermediaries where information is currency and danger often wears a well-tailored mask.
Without venturing into spoilers, the premise turns on an investigation that circles a specific room, a numbered space that functions as a nexus for clandestine meetings, leverage, and intimidation. The novel follows the tightening of nets—legal and illegal—as competing interests attempt to control the traffic of secrets that passes through this inconspicuous portal. Wallace guides readers along corridors of influence and into corners where loyalties shift under pressure. The experience is one of steadily deepening intrigue: a puzzle of movements, aliases, and alibis, punctuated by bursts of peril that keep the narrative taut while preserving the central mystery’s larger design.
The voice of Room 13 is brisk and unsentimental, shaped by Wallace’s facility with compact scenes and clean narrative momentum. Dialogue carries much of the energy, revealing character through quick exchanges and offhand remarks that accumulate into portraits of motive and method. The mood is tense but not dour, balanced by flashes of sly wit and an almost journalistic clarity in describing procedures, patterns, and the practicalities of crime and detection. Readers who appreciate pace will find the chapters arranged like stepping stones across a fast river, each landing placed to propel the next stride without sacrificing coherence.
At its heart, the novel explores the tension between appearances and operations—the way polished surfaces conceal negotiated power, and how small, hidden mechanisms can move large public outcomes. The numbered room itself becomes a figure for compartmentalization: of identities, of loyalties, of truths withheld or sold. Wallace is interested in systems—financial, legal, and illicit—and the porous borders between them, where opportunists thrive and the conscientious must improvise. The book raises questions about the cost of knowledge, the ethics of leverage, and the degree to which order depends on people who understand the very irregularities they are tasked to control.
Contemporary readers may find the novel’s concerns strikingly current. The idea that a modest physical space can concentrate power mirrors our era’s equivalents—encrypted channels, private backrooms, and networks where access confers advantage. Room 13 invites reflection on surveillance, privacy, and institutional trust, asking how far individuals should go to expose wrongdoing and what is risked when lines blur between investigation and intrusion. Its streamlined structure anticipates the bingeable rhythms of modern thrillers, while its urban anxieties—about anonymity, reputation, and predation—resonate in a time when information circulates quickly and the boundary between public and private life is precariously thin.
Approached as both entertainment and inquiry, Room 13 offers the satisfaction of a classic crime puzzle delivered with the propulsion of a thriller. Wallace orchestrates reversals and reveals with a craftsman’s economy, giving readers the sensation of moving purposefully through a maze where the walls are always just close enough to feel. It is a sharp introduction to the author’s particular blend of momentum and mystery, and a reminder of why this period’s crime fiction retains its allure. For those drawn to moral ambiguity handled with lightness of touch, the novel promises suspense, atmosphere, and a lingering afterthought of unease.
Synopsis
Set in a restless London of late nights and discreet hotels, Room 13 follows a police inquiry that begins with a troubling incident linked to a particular door in a bustling establishment. Rumors already surround the room, and its occupants tend to arrive under assumed names, stay briefly, and vanish without trace. The authorities assign an experienced investigator to determine why this unremarkable space keeps surfacing around theft, blackmail, and shadowy meetings. Early inquiries reveal gaps in hotel records, nervous staff, and a steady pattern of visitors whose paths never quite cross in public, yet intersect in the corridor of Room 13.
The investigation starts with routine questions and an inventory of small anomalies: a missing entry in the register, a key that does not quite match its lock, a scrap of paper bearing a half-erased address. The room’s odd usage suggests that it serves as a rendezvous point for criminals who avoid direct contact. Surveillance yields sightings of messengers arriving at irregular hours and departing by different exits. The investigator notes that petty offenses reported across the city share discreet timings with arrivals to the room, hinting that the venue may serve as a pivot for planning or exchanging instructions rather than a simple hideout.
Several figures stand out in the early stages: a capable but cautious hotel manager, a porter too observant for his own comfort, and a young professional with an interest in the case that appears more than casual. There is also a woman whose presence shifts with the shadows of the lobby, attentive to who enters and leaves but hard to place. Each offers plausible explanations and partial truths. Motives, alibis, and private anxieties overlap, creating a list of suspects that expands with each interview. The story establishes a web of relationships in which trust is scarce and every gesture may be misdirection.
Following the money and movements, the police trace a wider network that stretches from respectable offices to backstreet shops and riverfront warehouses. Separate crimes begin to look coordinated: a robbery here, a disappearance there, and coded notes passed in apparently innocent packages. Room 13 appears at the center of this map, used for brief conferences that never exceed a few minutes. Red herrings abound, with certain leads leading to empty rooms or false names. As public pressure mounts in the press and financial losses accumulate, the investigator recognizes a pattern that points to careful planning and a central figure who remains unseen.
To break the stalemate, the authorities attempt infiltration. A trusted operative takes a role that provides access to the hotel’s routines, while another cultivates contact with a suspected go-between. The risks are immediate: sudden changes in passwords, unannounced inspections, and a habit among the conspirators of meeting two at a time, never all together. A reluctant informant offers fragments that raise as many questions as answers. Attention narrows on how messages move in and out of Room 13 without anyone obviously carrying them. The investigator weighs exposing the informant against preserving a fragile channel that might reveal the network’s hierarchy.
Midway through the inquiry, an apparent breakthrough proves deceptive. A suspect once considered central is cleared by a verifiable schedule, yet their routine leads to another, deeper connection. More tellingly, the room yields a structural surprise: an architectural quirk that allows sound to travel one way and footsteps to be masked. The discovery explains how meetings could occur without witnesses noticing, and how different visitors could share a plan without being seen together. Physical evidence begins to cohere: ledgers with carefully altered columns, envelopes bearing a distinctive crease, and a timetable aligning the room’s occupancy with incidents elsewhere.
Armed with new insights, the investigator reconstructs the likely method. An outwardly respectable enterprise shields a rotating cast who handle specialized tasks, each ignorant of the full design. Room 13 functions as a switchboard: assignments are exchanged, alibis synchronized, and proceeds quietly redistributed. Surveillance tightens around couriers and intermediaries, with marked notes and discreet trails. A near-capture outside the hotel proves how quickly the conspirators can scatter, using routine and anonymity as cover. The case pivots when a familiar face reappears in an unexpected role, indicating that loyalty inside the ring is negotiable and that fear keeps the group aligned.
With pressure mounting, the police arrange a controlled test that resembles the conspirators’ own routines. The plan relies on timing: shadow the couriers, anticipate a scheduled meeting in Room 13, and ensure that evidence connects contributors to the same operation. The hotel staff must be cooperative yet discreet, and an emergency exit needs quiet attention. The principal figures converge as anticipated, but complications arise: a misplaced key, an unexpected visitor, and signals that suggest the conspirators suspect a trap. The scene narrows to a decisive confrontation in and around the room, with choices forced and identities placed at risk.
The story closes by drawing together the investigation’s strands: how seemingly minor discrepancies revealed a structured criminal design, and how persistence rather than spectacle exposed the organizing mind. Without detailing final revelations, the narrative emphasizes the painstaking nature of detection and the vulnerability of schemes that rely on routine. Room 13 becomes a symbol of calculated anonymity, transformed from an ordinary hotel chamber into a nexus for careful wrongdoing. The novel’s flow moves from whispered suspicions to coordinated action, conveying a message about the reach of organized crime and the methods required to counter it within the city’s everyday spaces.
Historical Context
Set in early-to-mid 1920s Britain, the novel unfolds chiefly in London’s West End and Strand districts, where grand hotels, banks, and offices abut crowded thoroughfares and discreet side streets. Corridors, lifts, and telephone switchboards create a modern labyrinth whose anonymity suits clandestine meetings, while Scotland Yard’s proximity signals constant surveillance. Railway journeys to coastal ports and market towns extend the geography to places tied to smuggling and provincial commerce. The new ubiquity of taxis and motorcars accelerates pursuit and escape, and electric lighting, hotel registers, and telegraphs anchor the story in an urban environment shaped by postwar reconstruction and administrative routine.
The aftermath of the First World War (1914–1918) reshaped British society: around 5 million men were demobilized between late 1918 and 1920, and unemployment surged, peaking at over 2 million in 1921. War debts, inflation, and a housing shortage deepened insecurity, while ex-servicemen sought work in policing, private security, or the shadow economy. London swelled with migrants from the provinces and the empire, intensifying competition and anonymity. Room 13 mirrors these dislocations in its depiction of opportunistic crime patterned on transient identities, rented rooms, and quick cash schemes; its suspects and witnesses often carry wartime scars or employ military skills in planning, surveillance, and discipline.
The modernization of British policing and the growth of interwar organized crime form the most consequential historical matrix for the novel. The Metropolitan Police Criminal Investigation Department (CID), professionalized since the late 19th century, expanded its forensic capacity—most notably with the Metropolitan Fingerprint Bureau established in 1901—and after 1918 intensified mobile operations. In 1919 the Metropolitan Police created the Flying Squad, a motorized CID unit designed to combat armed robbery and smash-and-grab raids that plagued West End jewelers in streets like Bond Street and districts such as Hatton Garden. Postwar criminals increasingly used motorcars, lookouts, and safe houses; the police replied with decoy operations, informants, and coordinated hotel and lodging-house checks. Senior figures including Commissioner Sir Nevil Macready (1918–1920) and Sir William Horwood (1920–1928) oversaw reforms amid turbulence, including the police strikes of 1918–1919, which led to the Police Act 1919 and creation of the Police Federation. Firearms anxieties produced the Firearms Act 1920, tightening licensing and shaping the tactics of both police and criminals. Concurrently, racecourse gangs fought over protection rackets: the Sabini gang, centered in Clerkenwell and the West End, clashed with rivals such as Billy Kimber’s Birmingham gang across Epsom and other courses in the early 1920s, intertwining gambling, intimidation, and hotel-based rendezvous. These developments filtered directly into Wallace’s plotting: his investigators operate like CID men of the period, using fingerprint comparisons, surveillance of hotel registers, controlled raids, and informants to penetrate a conspiratorial ring that exploits a numbered room as a secure node. The novel’s criminals likewise reflect contemporary tactics—fast getaways, compartmentalized cells, and the concealment of weapons or forged documents in temporary lodgings—refracting real London policing debates over mobility, evidence, and the management of violent, profit-driven gangs.
Interwar financial strains and crime supply another backdrop. Britain’s return to the gold standard at prewar parity in April 1925, under Chancellor Winston Churchill, contributed to deflationary pressures and business failures, while cash-based luxury trades clustered in the West End. Jewelers in Bond Street and merchants in Hatton Garden suffered a spate of smash-and-grab robberies between 1919 and the mid-1920s; counterfeit banknote rings also surfaced as wartime Treasury notes gave way to revised Bank of England issues culminating in the Bank Notes and Currency Act 1928. The novel echoes these conditions through plots involving fast-moving thefts, forged instruments, and the use of hotel rooms as depots and negotiation spaces.
Immigration controls and anti-radical measures framed urban suspicion. The Aliens Restriction Act 1914, extended by Orders in 1919 and 1920, imposed registration, residence, and employment reporting on foreign nationals, while passports and hotel registers became routine documents checked by police. After the 1917 Russian Revolution, Special Branch and MI5 monitored suspected Bolshevik sympathizers, labor militants, and foreign agents in London. These policies normalized surveillance of names, visas, and addresses in lodging houses and hotels. Room 13 reflects this climate when investigators scrutinize guest lists, accents, and papers, and when criminal schemes exploit or disguise cross-border identities to move people, money, and contraband.
Urban leisure and nightlife structured criminal opportunity. Soho’s nightclub scene flourished despite licensing constraints; the notorious “43 Club” at 43 Gerrard Street, run by Kate Meyrick, was raided repeatedly in the early to mid-1920s, highlighting the porous boundary between fashionable entertainment and illicit drinking, gambling, or vice. Street betting persisted despite the Street Betting Act 1906, and private gaming rooms dotted the West End. Such venues, with back staircases and private rooms, offered cover for extortion and fencing stolen goods. The novel harnesses this milieu: a discreet hotel room functions like a private club’s inner chamber, enabling clandestine finance, blackmail, and coordination among conspirators.
Shifts in class and gender relations after 1918 altered both policing and urban work. The Representation of the People Act 1918 enfranchised most men over 21 and women over 30; the Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act 1919 opened many professions to women; and by 1921 large numbers of women held clerical, retail, and hotel positions across London. Women police patrols appeared from 1919 to address public morality and welfare cases. The 1926 General Strike exposed class tensions and fears about order. In the novel’s world, female clerks, typists, and hotel staff become crucial witnesses or intermediaries, while criminals exploit class-coded spaces—luxury suites versus service corridors—to mask movements and manipulate social deference.
As social and political critique, the book exposes the precariousness of interwar urban order. It portrays how wealth concentration and conspicuous consumption in West End hotels coexist with unemployment, policing austerity, and surveillance regimes that fall unevenly on migrants and the working poor. The anonymities of modern infrastructure—motorcars, telephones, rented rooms—empower both officials and offenders, raising questions about liberty versus security under the Aliens controls and postwar emergency habits. By staging crime within elite spaces and implicating financiers, hoteliers, and fixers, the narrative indicts a system where privilege shields wrongdoing and public institutions struggle to protect ordinary citizens without overreaching.
Room 13
CHAPTER I
OVER the grim stone archway was carved the words:
PARCERE SUBJECTIS[1]
In cold weather, and employing the argot of his companions Johnny Gray translated this as "Parky Subjects"—it certainly had no significance as "Spare the Vanquished" for he had been neither vanquished nor spared.
Day by day, harnessed to the shafts, he and Lal Morgon had pulled a heavy hand-cart up the steep slope, and day by day had watched absently the red-bearded gate-warder put his key in the big polished lock and snap open the gates. And then the little party had passed through, an armed warder leading, an armed warder behind, and the gate had closed.
And at four o'clock he had walked back under the archway and waited whilst the gate was unlocked and the handcart admitted.
Every building was hideously familiar. The gaunt "halls," pitch painted against the Dartmoor storms, the low-roofed office, the gas house, the big, barn-like laundry, the ancient bakery, the exercise yard with its broken asphalt, the ugly church, garishly decorated, the long, scrubbed benches with the raised seats for the warders...and the graveyard where the happily released lifers rested from their labours.
One morning in spring, he went out of the gate with a working-party. They were building a shed, and he had taken the style and responsibility of bricklayer's labourer. He liked the work because you can talk more freely on a job like that, and he wanted to hear all that Lal Morgon had to say about the Big Printer.
"Not so much talking to-day." said the warder in charge, seating himself on a sack-covered brick heap.
"No, sir." said Lal.
He was a wizened man of fifty and a lifer, and he had no ambition, which was to live long enough to get another "lagging."
"But not burglary, Gray," he said as he leisurely set a brick in its place; "and not shootin', like old Legge got his packet. And not faking Spider King, like you got yours."
"I didn't get mine for faking Spider King," said Johnny calmly. "I didn't know that Spider King had been rung in when I took him on the course, and was another horse altogether. They framed up Spider King to catch me. I am not complaining."
"I know you're innocent—everybody is." said Lal soothingly. "I'm the only guilty man in boob. That's what the governor says. 'Morgon,' he says, 'it does my heart good to meet a guilty man that ain't the victim of circumstantiality. Like everybody else is in boob,' he says."
Johnny did not pursue the subject. There was no reason why he should. This fact was beyond dispute. He had known all about the big racecourse swindles that were being worked, and had been an associate of men who backed the "rung in" horses. He accepted the sentence of three years' penal servitude that had been passed without appeal or complaint. Not because he was guilty of the act for which he was charged—there was another excellent reason.
"If they lumbered you with the crime, it was because you was a mug," said old Lal complacently. "That's what mugs are for—to be lumbered. What did old Kane say?[1q]"
"I didn't see Mr. Kane." said Johnny shortly.
"He'd think you was a mug, too," said Lal with satisfaction—"hand me a brick. Gray, and shut up! That nosey screw's coming over." The "nosey screw" was no more inquisitive than any other warder. He strolled across, the handle of his truncheon showing from his pocket, the well-worn strap dangling. "Not so much talking," he said mechanically.
"I was asking for a brick, sir," said Lal humbly. "These bricks ain't so good as the last lot."
"I've noticed that," said the warder, examining a half-brick with a professional and disapproving eye.
"Trust you to notice that, sir," said the sycophant with the right blend of admiration and awe. And, when the warder had passed:
"That boss-eyed perisher don't know a brick from a gas-stove," said Lal without heat. "He's the bloke that old Legge got straightened when he was in here—used to have private letters brought in every other day. But then, old Legge's got money. Him and Peter Kane smashed the strong-room 'of the Orsonic and got away with a million dollars. They never caught Peter, but Legge was easy. He shot a copper and got life."
Johnny had heard Legge's biography a hundred times, but Lal Morgon had reached the stage of life when every story he told was new.
"That's why he hates Peter," said the garrulous bricklayer. "That's why young Legge and him are going to get Peter. And young Legge's hot! Thirty years of age by all accounts, and the biggest printer of slush in the world! And it's not ord'nary slush. Experts get all mixed up when they see young Legge's notes—can't tell 'em from real Bank of England stuff. And the police and the secret service after him for years—and then never got him!"
The day was warm, and Lal stripped off his red and blue striped working jacket. He wore, as did the rest of the party, the stained yellow breeches faintly stamped with the broad arrow. Around his calves were buttoned yellow gaiters. His shirt was of stout cotton, white with narrow blue stripes, and on his head was a cap adorned with mystic letters of the alphabet to indicate the dates of his convictions. A week later, when the letters were abolished, Lal Morgon had a grievance. He felt as a soldier might feel when he was deprived of his decorations.
"You've never met young Jeff?" stated rather than asked Lal, smoothing a dab of mortar with a leisurely touch.
"I've seen him—I have not met him," said Johnny grimly, and something in his tone made the old convict look up.
"He 'shopped' me," said Johnny, and Lal indicated his surprise with an inclination of his head that was ridiculously like a bow.
"I don't know why, but I do know that he 'shopped 'me," said Johnny. "He was the man who fixed up the fake, got me persuaded to bring the horse on to the course, and then squeaked. Until then I did not know that the alleged Spider King was in reality Boy Saunders cleverly camouflaged."
"Squeaking's hidjus," said the shocked Lal, and he seemed troubled. "And Emanuel Legge's boy, too! Why did he do it—did you catch him over money?"
Johnny shook his head.
"I don't know. If it's true that he hates Peter Kane he may have done it out of revenge, knowing that I'm fond of Peter, and...well, I'm fond of Peter. He warned me about mixing with the crowd I ran with—"
"Stop that talking, will you?" They worked for some time in silence. Then: "That screw will get somebody hung one of these days," said Lal in a tone of quiet despair. "He's the feller that little Lew Morse got a bashing for —over clouting him with a spanner in the blacksmith's shop. He was nearly killed. What a pity! Lew wasn't much account, an' he's often said he'd as soon be dead as sober."
At four o'clock the working-party fell in and marched or shuffled down the narrow road to the prison gates. Parcere Subjectis. Johnny looked up and winked at the grim jest, and he had the illusion that the archway winked back at him. At half-past four he turned into the deep-recessed doorway of his cell, and the yellow door closed on him with a metallic snap of a lock.
It was a big, vaulted cell, and the colour of the folded blanket ends gave it a rakish touch of gaiety. On a shelf in one corner was a photograph of a fox terrier, a pretty head turned inquiringly toward him. He poured out a mugful of water and drank it, looking up at the barred window. Presently his tea would come, and then the lock would be put on for eighteen and a half hours. And for eighteen and a half hours he must amuse himself as best he could. He could read whilst the light held—a volume of travel was on the ledge that served as a table. Or he could write on his slate, or draw horses and dogs, or work out interminable problems in mathematics, or write poetry...or think. That was the worst exercise of all. He crossed the cell and took down the photograph. The mount had worn limp with much handling, and he looked with a half-smile into the big eyes of the terrier.
"It is a pity you can't write, old Spot." he said. Other people could write, and did, he thought as he replaced the photograph. But Peter Kane never once mentioned Marney, and Marney had not written since...a long time. It was ominous, informative, in some ways decisive. A brief reference, "Marney is well," or "Marney thanks you for your inquiry," and that was all.
The whole story was clearly written in those curt phrases, the story of Peter's love for the girl, and his determination that she should not marry a man with the prison taint. Peter's adoration of his daughter was almost a mania—her happiness and her future came first, and must always be first. Peter loved him—Johnny had sensed that. He had given him the affection that a man might give his grown son. If this tragic folly of his had not led to the entanglement which brought him to a convict prison, Peter would have given Marney to him, as she was willing to give herself. "That's that," said Johnny, in his role of philosopher. And then came tea and the final lock-up, and silence...and thoughts again.
Why did young Legge trap him? He had only seen the man once; they had never even met. It was only by chance that he had ever seen this young printer of forged notes. He could not guess that he was known to the man he "shopped," for Jeff Legge was an illusive person. One never met him in the usual rendezvous where the half-underworld foregather to boast and plot or drink and love.
A key rattled in the lock, and Johnny got up. He forgot that it was the evening when the chaplain visited him. "Sit down. Gray." The door closed on the clergyman, and he seated himself on Johnny's bed. It was curious that he should take up the thread of Johnny's interrupted thoughts.
"I want to get your mind straight about this man Legge...the son, I mean. It is pretty bad to brood on grievances, real or fancied, and you are nearing the end of your term of imprisonment, when your resentment will have a chance of expressing itself. And, Gray, I don't want to see you here again."
Johnny Gray smiled.
"You won't see me here!" he emphasised the word. "As to Jeff Legge, I know little about him, though I've done some fairly fluent guessing and I've heard a lot."
The chaplain shook his head thoughtfully.
"I have heard a little; he's the man they call the Big Printer, isn't he? Of course, I know all about the flooding of Europe with spurious notes, and that the police had failed to catch the man who was putting them into circulation. Is that Jeff Legge?"
Johnny did not answer, and the chaplain smiled a little sadly. "Thou shalt not squeak'—the eleventh commandment, isn't it?" he asked good-humouredly. "I am afraid I have been indiscreet. When does your sentence end?"
"In six months," replied Johnny, "and I'll not be sorry."
"What are you going to do? Have you any money?"
The convict's lips twitched.
"Yes, I have three thousand a year," he said quietly. "That is a fact which did not come out at the trial, for certain reasons. No, padre, money isn't my difficulty. I suppose I shall travel. I certainly shall not attempt to live down my grisly past."
"That means you're not going to change your name," said the chaplain with a twinkle in his eye. "Well, with three thousand a year, I can't see you coming here again." Suddenly he remembered. Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out a letter. "The Deputy gave me this, and I'd nearly forgotten. It arrived this morning."
The letter was opened, as were all letters that came to convicts, and Johnny glanced carelessly at the envelope. It was not, as he had expected, a letter from his lawyer. The bold handwriting was Peter Kane's—the first letter he had written for six months. He waited until the door had closed upon the visitor, and then he took the letter from the envelope. There were only a few lines of writing.
'Dear Johnny, I hope you are not going to be very much upset by the news I am telling you. Marney is marrying Major Floyd, of Toronto, and I know that you're big enough and fine enough to wish her luck. The man she is marrying is a real good fellow who will make her happy.
Johnny put down the letter on to the ledge, and for ten minutes paced the narrow length of his cell, his hands clasped behind him. Marney to be married! His face was white, tense, his eyes dark with gloom. He stopped and poured out a mugful of water with a hand that shook, then raised the glass to the barred window that looked eastward.
"Good luck to you, Marney!" he said huskily, and drank the mug empty.
CHAPTER II
TWO days later, Johnny Gray was summoned to the Governor's office and heard the momentous news.
"Gray, I have good news for you. You are to be released immediately. I have just had the authority."
Johnny inclined his head.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
A warder took him to a bathroom, where he stripped, and, with a blanket about him, came out to a cubicle, where his civilian clothes were waiting. He dressed with a queer air of unfamiliarity, and went back to his cell. The warder brought him a looking-glass and a safety-razor, and he completed his toilet.
The rest of the day was his own. He was a privileged man, and could wander about the prison in his strangely-feeling attire, the envy of men whom he had come to know and to loathe; the half madmen who for a year had been whispering their futilities into his ear.
As he stood there in the hall at a loose end, the door was flung open violently, and a group of men staggered in. In the midst of them was a howling, shrieking thing that was neither man nor beast, his face bloody, his wild arms gripped by struggling warders.
He watched the tragic group as it made its way to the punishment cells.
"Fenner," said somebody under his breath. "He coshed a screw[2], but they can't give him another bashing."
"Isn't Fenner that twelve-year man, that's doing his full time?" asked Johnny, remembering the convict. "And he's going out to-morrow, too!"
"That's him," said his informant, one of the hall sweepers. "He'd have got out with nine, but old Legge reported him. Game to the last, eh? They can't bash him after to-morrow, and the visiting justices won't be here for a week."
Johnny remembered the case. Legge had been witness to a brutal assault on the man by one of the warders, who had since been discharged from the service. In desperation the unfortunate Fenner had hit back, and had been tried. Legge's evidence might have saved him from the flogging which followed, but Legge was too good a friend of the warders—or they were too good friends of his—to betray a "screw." So Fenner had gone to the triangle, as he would not go again.
He could not sleep the last night in the cell. His mind was on Marney. He did not reproach her for a second. Nor did he feel bitter toward her father. It was only right and proper that Peter Kane should do what was best for his girl. The old man's ever-present fear for his daughter's future was almost an obsession. Johnny guessed that when this presentable Canadian had come along, Peter had done all in his power to further the match.
Johnny Gray walked up the steep slope for the last time. A key turned in the big lock, and he stood outside the gates, a free man. The red-bearded head warder put out his hand.
"Good luck to you," he said gruffly. "Don't you come over the Alps again."
"I've given up mountain climbing," said Johnny.
He had taken his farewell of the Governor, and now the only thing to remind him of his association with the grim prison he had left was the warder who walked by his side to the station. He had some time to wait, and Johnny tried to get some information from another angle.
