"Why, what are you talking about, dad? Had anything to do with whom—Mr. Merton? I didn't see anything so very extraordinary about him."
"No; not Mr. Merton"—Warden Rand pinched his daughter's cheeks playfully. "Varge, the man who murdered Mr. Merton's father—the man that Sheriff Marston brought in last month when you were in the office."
"I remember," said Janet slowly. "I remember I was very sorry for him—after he went out. What has happened, dad? What has he done?"
"He hasn't done anything," replied the warden soberly, taking a turn or two up and down the room. "I can't explain it—he's different, that's all. I thought I had seen all kinds and all types and had had years enough of experience to see through any veneer any criminal ever thought of coating himself with—but this man is different. I've gone midnight rounds with the guards and listened in front of his cell—he sleeps as sweetly and easily as a babe. I've spoken to him suddenly in the shop, come up behind him when he was off his guard—never a start or tremor. He's clean, clean-skinned, clean-eyed and—" Warden Rand paused and looked at his daughter thoughtfully.
"And therefore he ought to be clean inside," completed Janet. "You nearly said, it, dad. I actually think you believe he's innocent."
Warden Rand's fine, ruddy face relaxed and a whimsical smile crept into his eyes and flickered on his lips.
"My dear," said he, "I've got seven hundred and ninety-three prisoners in there, and this man is the only guilty one amongst them."
