at the other desk—but the steel-grey eyes were sweeping Varge from head to foot.
A moment the look held, then the warden pushed a button on his desk and turned to his daughter and Marston.
And as Varge stood there, it was as if suddenly he stood alone in some place of vast expanse, barriered and set apart, where no human being had ever been before, where no human love was known; a place of intense cold where neither life nor green thing was; a place of valleys and chasms and mountains, and one mountain of stupendous height from whose pinnacle he looked out into a great blackness that was everywhere around, and there was no light of stars or moon or sun, and all was utter desolation—and out of this desolation there came at first no sound; then there came one seemingly from far below him, faint at first, that gradually grew more distinct, and the sound clutched at his heart, for of all sounds it had no place there, for there was death—it was the sound of a sweet-toned woman's voice. The imagery was gone. Varge raised his shackled hands and brushed them across his eyes. A woman's voice—here! The warden's daughter was still talking unconcernedly to Sheriff Marston.
The clerk laid a slip of paper on the warden's desk. The warden turned, picked up a pen, bent over the paper, signed it, blotted it, folded it, placed it in an envelope and handed it to Sheriff Marston.
"Here's your receipt, Sheriff," he said.
Some one touched Varge on the shoulder. A guard had entered and was at his elbow.
Marston took a small key from his pocket and stepped to Varge's side.
