Room 13 Read Free

convict prison, Peter would have given Marney to him, as she was willing to give herself.
    “That’s that,” said Johnny in his rôle of philosopher. And then came tea and the final lock up, and silence…and thoughts again.
    Why did young Legge trap him? He had only seen the man once; they had never even met. It was only by chance that he had ever seen this young printer of forged notes. He could not guess that he was known to the man he ‘shopped’, for Jeff Legge was an illusive person. One never met him in the usual rendezvous where the half-underworld foregather to boast and plot or drink and love.
    A key rattled in the lock, and Johnny got up. He forgot that it was the evening when the chaplain visited him.
    “Sit down, Gray.” The door closed on the clergyman, and he seated himself on Johnny’s bed.
    It was curious that he should take up the thread of Johnny’s interrupted thoughts.
    “I want to get your mind straight about this man Legge…the son, I mean. It is pretty bad to brood on grievances, real or fancied, and you are nearing the end of your term of imprisonment, when your resentment will have a chance of expressing itself. And, Gray, I don’t want to see you here again.”
    Johnny Gray smiled.
    “You won’t see me here!” he emphasised the word. “As to Jeff Legge, I know little about him, though I’ve done some fairly fluent guessing and I’ve heard a lot.”
    The chaplain shook his head thoughtfully.
    “I have heard a little; he’s the man they call the Big Printer, isn’t he? Of course, I know all about the flooding of Europe with spurious notes, and that the police had failed to catch the man who was putting them into circulation. Is that Jeff Legge?”
    Johnny did not answer, and the chaplain smiled a little sadly.
    “‘Thou shalt not squeak’ – the eleventh commandment, isn’t it?” he asked good-humouredly. “I am afraid I have been indiscreet. When does your sentence end?”
    “In six months,” replied Johnny, “and I’ll not be sorry.”
    “What are you going to do? Have you any money?”
    The convict’s lips twitched.
    “Yes, I have three thousand a year,” he said quietly. “That is a fact which did not come out at the trial, for certain reasons. No, padre, money isn’t my difficulty. I suppose I shall travel. I certainly shall not attempt to live down my grisly past.”
    “That means you’re not going to change your name,” said the chaplain with a twinkle in his eye. “Well, with three thousand a year, I can’t see you coming here again.” Suddenly he remembered. Putting his hand in his pocket, he took out a letter. “The Deputy gave me this, and I’d nearly forgotten. It arrived this morning.”
    The letter was opened, as were all letters that came to convicts, and Johnny glanced carelessly at the envelope. It was not, as he had expected, a letter from his lawyer. The bold handwriting was Peter Kane’s – the first letter he had written for six months. He waited until the door had closed upon the visitor, and then he took the letter from the envelope. There were only a few lines of writing.
     
    Dear Johnny, I hope you are not going to be very much upset by the news I am telling you. Marney is marrying Major Floyd, of Toronto, and I know that you’re big enough and fine enough to wish her luck. The man she is marrying is a real good fellow who will make her happy.
     
    Johnny put down the letter on to the ledge, and for ten minutes paced the narrow length of his cell, his hands clasped behind him. Marney to be married! His face was white, tense, his eyes dark with gloom. He stopped and poured out a mugful of water with a hand that shook, then raised the glass to the barred window that looked eastward.
    “Good luck to you, Marney!” he said huskily, and drank the mug empty.
     

2
    Two days later, Johnny Gray was summoned to the Governor’s office and heard the momentous news.
    “Gray, I have good news for you. You are to be released immediately.