THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL

As the Governor finished his seventh story, the visitor shrugged his shoulders and glanced at the window, where the fog was swirling up against the glass.

"I hope you do not find it too cold," said the Governor politely. "Shall I turn up the gas stove to its full capacity? It is rather a large stove, but we can regulate it——"

"I find it warm enough, thank you," interrupted the visitor. "I was merely taking note that the fog is becoming denser than ever."

"Naturally," agreed the Governor, "you are interested in the fog, for reasons we shall not discuss; and mention of fog reminds me that in my eighth cell is one who relied on just a similar density of atmosphere to escape from this very prison. He has just been sentenced to an additional term for that escapade."

"Then you admit that it is possible to escape from your prison?" inquired the visitor quickly, eager to make a point.

"It is possible to do almost anything, but every action has its consequences. We seldom escape the consequences after we have committed the act. If a prisoner behaves himself and gives the impression that he is willing to accept the punishment which the law has given him, we do not make his punishment more of a torture than we can help. In other words, we give prisoners some slight benefits, some privileges. These help to mould their characters. But Harry Sarlon, I am afraid, took advantage of the privileges given him. As there is an element of a certain kind of humour in his case I am sure you will be interested to hear of his case. The fog makes it definitely apposite."

The Governor then proceeded:

Harry Sarlon had broken out of prison quite easily. He stood bracing himself against the rough wall of the archway, knowing that he was being sought, knowing that the warders were on his trail.

At his feet were a paint-pot and two brushes, the materials with which he had been working when he escaped. His convict dress was hidden by a loose smock which, though prison property, was a disguise for his prison clothes. In his right hand he held a heavy stone which he had picked up from the ground.

The fog swirled past him, thick and heavy; so thick that he could not see objects a few yards away. It was because of the fog that he had escaped.

The scrape of a foot on the ground sounded near his hiding-place. A man's form appeared in the strange gloom, woolly and indistinct. A lantern, blurred and ruddy-yellow, swung slowly to and fro.

"Sarlon, you had better surrender if you are there! You can't get away!"

The voice was a challenge, besides being an order. It was the voice of Warder Tully, the man of all his guards whom Sarlon hated and feared most.

For just one moment Sarlon hesitated. He felt that the warder was in the act of sounding his whistle. He heard the barking of a dog some distance off. The lantern moved towards him. Then Sarlon leaped.

The warder had no chance, for Sarlon was upon him like a panther. He bore Tully to the ground, hitting him with the stone. Tully was knocked unconscious and lay still.

It is possible, with imagination, to appreciate the wild, passionate desire for freedom that urged the convict to attack. The discipline and strict regulations of a place of detention arouse, in some natures, a ferocity against restraint which at times becomes ungovernable. There are men in prisons who can never be trusted beyond the ordinary routine. But Sarlon had seen to it that he was not regarded as of that type. He had deliberately suppressed his rebellion in order to make his escape. Therefore it was all the harder for him to admit defeat when challenged at that moment. He was in the full flush of belief in his ability to escape from Mincester gaol.

From the beginning of his term he had stifled his resentment, his hatred of prison and gaolers. He had done this to outwit them. This shows that he was a man of great self-control, yet he could not control his criminal leanings; a strange paradox. He could control himself in order to retaliate in time; there was something in him of the nature of the cat tribe. A tiger can lie still, waiting to catch its prey. Caged, it cannot keep passive.

Burglar, crook, law-breaker, he had run the whole gamut of crime with the exception of the capital charge. And now that he had visited his vengeance on Warder Tully he was aware that he must run.

By trade Sarlon was a house painter. He had attained to the position of a first-class convict because of his good behaviour. He had given no trouble at all, and had seemed to accept his punishment as the inevitable result of his lawless acts. As a result of this good behaviour and in an endeavour to reclaim him as a useful member of the community, he had been allowed to use his trade abilities. He had, in short, with another man, been put to the job of painting the windows of some outbuildings. This suited him very well. From the top of his ladder he had a view of the world beyond the prison. There is an old parish church, as you may have noticed, not very far off, on the steeple of which workmen were then engaged in repairs. The steeple was shored up by beams that slanted from the ground almost to the top; and, at stages, scaffolding framed the square tower in regular platforms. Sarlon knew that these workmen were engaged in tearing out the inside of the tower preparatory to re-buttressing it. This work was but one of the instances where local authorities were attempting to preserve the relics of England for future generations.

Sarlon had seen this work, and the sight helped him to make his plans. Only one thing was needed to obscure his escape. That one thing was night—or fog. He could not escape during the night, so he hoped for fog. There is a saying that the Devil looks after his own. The fog came.

The fog had swept down from the north suddenly, and, from the top of his ladder, Sarlon had watched it coming. This district is liable to get fogs at certain times of the year, as is well known. When the foremost fringe of the mist touched the prison wall and floated into the yard, the warders sounded the signal to stop work. Sarlon at first pretended not to hear; then, when he could keep up the pretence no longer without arousing suspicion, he acted as slowly as possible.

He came down the ladder, leaving his paint-pot on a window-ledge. He had to go back for it. This time he left a brush on the window-sill. He had to climb again for the brush. He was playing for time. The warders urged him to hurry, all unsuspecting his motive.

By this time all was indistinct and shadowy in the yard, and the fog was getting thicker every minute. When he descended the second time everything was in his favour. The yard was dense with mist. The fog had come quickly, as fogs generally come in marshy districts. Sarlon heard the other convicts being marshalled, though he could no longer see them. He saw a warder waiting for him at the foot of the ladder. With a quick movement he kicked the warder in the chest, sending him sprawling; then he took the ladder in his muscular hands, rushed across the yard with it, flung it against the wall and swarmed to the top.

He was astride the wall when the warder he had knocked down appeared below him. Sarlon kicked the ladder away and heard the warder's cry of alarm as he fell. Sarlon jumped to the other side of the wall. He was outside the prison.

His paint-pot, which was fastened to the top rung of the ladder by a hook, had fallen beside him. He picked it up as he started his flight. His paint-brushes were in his pocket. Why did Harry Sarlon take the paint-pot and his paint-brushes with him? All part of his scheme. If he met any civilians he could easily pretend that he was merely a painter on his way home. He threw away his prison cap. Who was to know that a convict had been using paints? By the time the circumstances of his flight were known to the public he reckoned he would be safe.

He ran through the fog until he reached the canal, which was to be his guide-rope. It would lead him towards the centre of the city and the place where he wanted to hide. He waded into the cold, muddy water which reached to his waist, and as he waded he held his smock high so that it would not be soaked, for it was his disguise. Climbing back to the bank, he ran on until he reached the rear of the parish church. He scaled the wall of the cemetery and was crawling among the tombstones when he heard a sound and saw a lantern moving towards him. Someone was on his trail.

Sarlon crouched behind a tombstone and waited. He saw the lantern pass in the fog and disappear. He wondered, in a moment of terrific concentration, if all his efforts were to be frustrated. The minutes passed. From somewhere to the right he heard another sound that set his teeth on edge. This was the baying of a hound.

Sarlon knew where the dog was at that moment, and he knew the dog was on his track. Two dogs are kept in this prison, in a yard shut off from the sight of every inmate; but every prisoner knows that these dogs are kept should an escape be made. I ought to say the idea of the dogs was mine.

Every day the dogs are exercised by the warders; and it was to throw the dogs off the scent that Sarlon had entered the canal. He argued that if he threw them off until he was deep in the city he would be safe. But, on the other hand, there was the fact that the very scent the dogs were following was his disguise. The dogs were following the smell of the paint which clung to his boots, his smock, his clothes. He dared not remain behind the tombstone, so he crept out and found the shelter of the archway. It was when he was here that the lantern came out of the mist again and the voice of Tully challenged him. There was nothing left for Sarlon except to surrender or attack. He clamoured for liberty; so he attacked. The dogs were not with Tully.

Sarlon found some satisfaction in attacking Tully. The latter was the one warder on the staff who could not be bluffed or deceived. He was the warder who had tried to prevent Sarlon from escaping by the ladder. He had rushed out, before the dogs had been loosed, to search on his own. Finding that the dogs took the road to the canal, Tully had struck away from it.

It was like Tully to argue that Sarlon had not crossed the canal and made for the open country, because Tully was the clearest-headed warder of the staff, the most relentless in pursuit as he was the most suspicious in his daily dealings with prisoners. No convict ever asked a favour, or made a request, which Tully did not suspect; he had acquired the habit of disbelieving every plea, every complaint! he was always on the alert to suspect excuses to evade rules. His duty became a sort of perpetual query mark. He was the most feared, as well as the most hated, warder.

He was as remorseless as iron and as merciless as logic. If a prisoner went sick he treated it as a feigned ruse until he saw the man collapse. He even regarded the doctor's examinations of prisoners as too gentle and as erring on the side of leniency. He grudged the hospital diet which patients were given. To his mind a convict was no longer a man but a number—a number which still constantly strove to evade punishment. There was no pity in Tully. He was incapable of compassion. But he believed he was just. His duties were, to him, part of a large organisation for the protection of organised society. "Prisoners," he once said to a Commission which sat to gather evidence on crime and criminals, "are the weeds in God's garden. Prison is the refuse heap of that garden." He took his work seriously, as became a grave and unimaginative nature.

Harry Sarlon in many ways justified Tully's words. His idea of freedom was to do as he liked—selfish to the core—without any sense of shame. His idea of law was that which restricted his raids on civilisation. But prison had shown him that to do as he liked he had to blind the law and hoodwink it when he could. To escape from prison was, to him, a duty to himself, any means justifying the end. To trick the authorities, to lie to them, to deceive them, was merely his way of "getting his own back." Rules and restrictions were a challenge to him. He had no sense of honour. He would have killed Tully with as little compunction as he would have told a lie or trod on a worm.

A mutual mistrust and antagonism had always existed between the two when they came into contact. It was the clash of opposites.

As he stood in the archway looking at the fallen man, Harry Sarlon, thinking he had killed Tully, was glad Tully was out of his way; but the baying of a dog came to his ears, and he knew that he must act quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dog, or dogs, found his trail again. Tully, he was aware, had taken a short cut ahead, and the dogs would come too. Quick as thought, Sarlon stripped off his smock and threw it beside his paint-pot and brushes. He had no use for these things now.

He took off his prison clothes also and left them in a heap beside his smock. He stripped the uniform off the warder, who had been so battered by the stone that he had every appearance of being dead, and found to his delight that there was some money in the warder's pockets.

He extinguished the lantern, clapped the warder's cap on his head, and, seizing the warder by the heels, dragged him into the cemetery over the heaps of earth. He knew where he was going and what he intended to do.

From his ladder in the prison yard he had observed the deep excavations that had been made around the tower of the old church; deep holes had been dug for the shoring timbers, and much of the foundations of the building had been exposed. Into one of these excavations Sarlon threw the warder. He intended to bury the man, and he had already started with hands and feet to push earth into the trench when once more he heard the baying of the hound. He dared not finish his ghoulish work. The other warders were on his trail and were coming fast. Sarlon leaped to his feet, and ran towards the church tower.

He had to go right round the tower before he found an entrance, and he gave a queer little laugh as he looked above the Gothic stone that frowned over the porch. It reminded him of the entrance to the prison he had just left; the stone was the same grey colour, the heavy doorway was the same design, the builders having evidently erected both from similar plans. It seemed funny to Sarlon that a church and a prison should be of the same construction—the one a sanctuary, the other a tomb to his hopes.

He found himself in a wide, open space beyond the doorway, and knew that he was at the base of the tower. It took him some time to find the ladder leading aloft, and when he climbed up to the top he was aware that he was on the first scaffold. He walked carefully round the narrow platform on the outside of the square tower and came upon another ladder. It was the way to the second scaffold higher up. He climbed slowly and carefully, found the third scaffolding and mounted it also, to find a fourth. This brought him to the opening into the belfry. He crawled through the window and lay on the beams that were laid under the huge bell. Keeping his head out of the window he looked below, watching and listening.

The indistinct, muffled voices of men came up to him. The fog was too thick for him to see anything. He lay still, listening, wondering if his pursuers would mount the scaffolding. Half an hour passed. The voices were no longer heard. His enemies had gone.

Lying up there, Harry Sarlon began to take stock of his position and prospects. He guessed that it was now late in the evening. The workmen who were engaged on the tower had ceased work with the coming of the fog, so that he would be safe from their interference until the morning. But he did not intend to wait until the morning, for the fog might then be cleared off and that would make his escape all the more difficult. He must get away as soon as possible. The money he had taken from Tully's pockets supplied the means if only he could get to the railway station.

"It's got to be done soon," he muttered. "If I stay here the town will be raised against me. They may have offered a reward by now for my capture, but I'll beat 'em with a little bluff."

He descended slowly to the ground and walked out into the roadway. The fog was still very thick, so that it was almost impossible to see more than a yard or two, but while this was a benefit to Sarlon it was also a drawback. He did not know the town very well, and he realised the danger of losing his way. Adjusting his cap and dusting down his clothes he marched forward.

People passed him like ghosts, silent and mysterious. He walked on until he observed the glimmering lights of shops. The smell of a cookshop's wares made him pause. He was hungry. He opened the door and stepped into the shop.

It was a small place, such a one as is used by workmen; a few customers were seated at tables beyond the counter, and a stout man, in soiled apron and shirt-sleeves, was frying potatoes on a coke fire.

Sarlon would have enjoyed nothing so much as to sit at a table and order a meal, but he dared not risk this, even if he was dressed in warder's uniform. He contented himself with buying several sandwiches, and the stout man leaned over the counter confidentially as he wrapped the food up.

"Say, mate, is it true one of your fellows has got away in the fog? A policeman tipped me off not long ago, but no sane convict would ever come in here, now, would he, not if he was starvin', poor devil?"

Sarlon was counting out the money for the sandwiches, and paid no attention to the man's talk; but the latter went on.

"Of course, I know it's against the rules to talk, but the escape ain't official yet, or the town would know it. They haven't sent out the signal, because some of you warders are still looking for him. He ain't a desperate character, him that's got away, is he?"

"How much for the sandwiches?" asked Sarlon quietly.

"One and six, boss. Rotten night, ain't it? Rather you were doin' a search than me in this fog. Of course, I know it ain't official about that escaped convict, or they'd hev sent out the signal——"

Sarlon picked up the parcel of food and swung out of the shop, glad to escape into the gloom of the street. He had felt the eyes of every customer on him while he stood at the counter. He trudged on, eating the sandwiches ravenously.

He heard the tramcars moving slowly along the street. Flares were lit at the corners. At a crossing he stood to think matters out. He wanted to get to a railway station. The plan he had formed was a bold one. Originally he had hoped to make his way to one of his pals, but now that he had money he decided on a better plan. He knew the police would search his usual haunts for him. He saw that he would be safer at his home, where his relatives would hide him. He was not a Londoner by birth. If only he could get on board an express he would be safe. His warder's dress would carry him past the ticket-collector at the barrier; especially since the news of his escape was not yet officially broadcast he would be free from suspicion.

He stopped a pedestrian and asked the way to the station. He was directed to follow the trams, then take certain turnings. The station was within an hour's walk at ordinary times.

Sarlon strode along exultantly. His disguise had carried him through so far, and he had little fear for the next steps. He experienced a strange uplift as he walked. People shuffled past him, coughing and peering about them. Buses and traffic moved very slowly in the middle of the road, crawling furtively, with glaring headlights that came and went in ghostly procession. The lighted windows of the shops glimmered in the yellow fog.

He had walked for well over an hour when he heard the shriek of a railway locomotive, followed by the bang of a fog signal. He knew he was near the railway station at last.

He approached it cautiously and found the entrance, a dully lit tunnel in which people were moving about like gnomes of the night. He made his way towards the booking office and was almost at it when someone touched his arm. He turned to find a policeman at his elbow. The sight almost unnerved him.

"What's the news, mate?"

"The news?" stammered Sarlon; then, getting a grip on himself, he answered steadily enough: "There ain't any news."

The policeman shrugged his shoulders.

"I expect you had an idea that your man would come this way, but I give you my word he hasn't showed up, nor anybody like him. I've been on duty here for over an hour, keeping an eye on everybody. Some of our plain-clothes men are on the platform too, and we're watching the siding so that he won't get aboard a train."

"Is that so?" said Sarlon.

"You bet. The prison people telephoned to our station and we were sent out at once. By the way, do you know that you men are being called in?"

"No, is that so?"

"We have been told to notify any of you we meet to return to the prison. The Governor wants to interrogate every warder before he sends out an official call."

The policeman rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.

"That runaway will get it in the neck when he is nabbed," he went on. "After what he did to one of your men."

"What did he do?"

"Haven't you heard? He nearly killed a warder named Tully—expect you know him——"

"I know him."

"I heard at the station just before I left. They found this warder in a trench over by the church. He had been battered badly. The dogs found him, led by the smell of paint. Tully must have found the escaped convict and been attacked. I don't know the particulars, but they say that the convict has crossed the canal. We've notified every barge owner and expect he'll come this way before the fog lifts."

"Oh, I see."

"So that's why the job is out of your hands now, mate. It's a police job, beyond your jurisdiction. The dogs have been called off and it's up to us."

Sarlon passed his hand over his face thoughtfully. He was very cool, yet he was very alert.

"What's you people's idea of his likely way of escape?"

"Well, they've put us to watch the railway and sidings. He won't stay about this district if he can get away, and he can't get away by walking the streets. The inspector believes he'll get out of town, maybe make for a port. He could change his clothes somewhere——"

"Well, I suppose it isn't any use me hanging about if we are called in," said Sarlon. "They'll think I'm lost if I don't report. So long."

He turned on his heel and walked out into the fog once more. Once outside, he strode swiftly along the street, his brain active and searching for a way out. His disguise as a warder had saved him, or perhaps it was his nerve, but he had had a narrow shave. Had the policeman not spoken to him he would have bought a ticket and then he would have had to explain. He ground his teeth at the thought of having been balked; but he was thankful for the policeman's talk all the same.

What was his position now? He dared not go back to the railway station. He dared not risk walking about, lest he meet other policemen. But he had to get away. He considered anxiously.

"There is a workmen's train in the early hours that will take me to some station beyond the city," he muttered. "I'll go back to the church steeple and wait until it's about time to catch the workmen's train. There won't be any police at the station then. Anyway, I'll have a rest in the church steeple and think it out."

With the thought of returning to this excellent hiding-place came another. How was he to get back? He had been walking in the fog so much that he had lost sense of direction. He stood still wondering which way to turn.

Just then, as he pondered, there came a sound that sent a reassuring thrill through him. His luck was holding after all. A bell was booming out above and through the fog.

"Evensong!" he exclaimed. "The church bell!"

He could find his way to the church by the clanging of the parish bell. It was the only bell that rang during every day of the week, and he blessed the fog and the bell and the church as he plodded towards the sound, a voice calling to him to come and be hidden, ringing its message, its invitation to sanctuary indeed.

As he walked, he thought out his plan. He would not go into the church while the people were there. He would slip round to the back and climb to the tower as soon as the congregation had settled to worship. Once there he could think out his next step without the harassing need to avoid people at every step.

Gradually the sound of the bell drew nearer. He was walking down the side street towards the church now. He pictured the scene as it was on fogless days; but his reckoning sometimes was out, because he was not too well acquainted with the streets; but he was happy—grimly triumphant.

The bell's notes began to dwindle. Its clang softened, its call faded. Harry Sarlon saw the dim outline of the stone porch silhouetted in the fog by a light beyond the Gothic structure.

He waited some distance from the door until the bell was stilled. Then he walked forward, pushed the iron gate open, and passed into the porch and so through—as he thought—the square tower.

But at that moment a lantern was swung behind him, its light flashed into his face.

A man's voice, gruff and menacing, challenged him.

"Hullo, there! We were told all you men had returned. I was just locking up the gate. What's this? Oh, I say——!"

A hand pulled off Sarlon's cap and a pair of strong arms pinned his arms to his sides while the man shouted an alarm.

"Help! Quick! I've got Sarlon!"

Harry Sarlon did not struggle in the grasp that held him, nor did he make any attempt to escape. He felt suddenly sick at the trick the bell had played him.

He was not in the porch of a parish church. What he had heard was the prison bell signalling officially to the wide world that a convict had escaped; and he had walked back to prison, guided there by the alarm.