no means bad looking, he lacked that indefinable suggestion of
animalism which distinguished the majority of the inhabitants at
Dartmoor.

They waited until they heard the warder's step clear the passage,
and until his iron-shod boots were tramping over the cobbled path
which led from the door, through the tiny garden to the road,
before the second man spoke.

"What are you in for?" he asked, in a low voice.

"Murder," said John Lexman, laconically.

He had answered the question before, and had noticed with a little
amusement the look of respect which came into the eyes of the
questioner.

"What have you got!"

"Fifteen years," said the other.

"That means 11 years and 9 months," said the first man. "You've
never been here before, I suppose?"

"Hardly," said Lexman, drily.

"I was here when I was a kid," confessed the paper-hanger. "I am
going out next week."

John Lexman looked at him enviously. Had the man told him that he