"Lieutenant!" he stammered, "that man--the nigger that officer
shot--he's dead!"

Aintree gave a gasp that was partly a groan, partly a cry of
protest, and Bullard, as though for the first time aware of his
presence, sprang back to the open door and placed himself between
it and Aintree.

"It's murder!" he said.

None of the three men spoke; and when Meehan crossed to where
Aintree stood, staring fearfully at nothing, he had only to touch
his sleeve, and Aintree, still staring, fell into step beside him.

From the yard outside Standish heard the iron door of the cell
swing shut, heard the key grate in the lock, and the footsteps of
Meehan returning.

Meehan laid the key upon the desk, and with Bullard stood at
attention, waiting.

"Give him time," whispered Standish. "Let it sink in!"

At the end of half an hour Standish heard Aintree calling, and,
with Meehan carrying a lantern, stepped into the yard and stopped
at the cell door.

Aintree was quite sober. His face was set and white, his voice
was dull with suffering. He stood erect, clasping the bars in his
hands.