matter in hand--sent the detective to police headquarters.

"I think I'll ask Donovan what Singa Phut said when he was arrested and
charged with murdering his partner," said the colonel to himself.
"There's an end I haven't developed very much. And I would like to ask
that East Indian something about that queer watch."

Donovan was at headquarters, it being his night "on," and he welcomed
the detective as some one with whom he might hold converse.

"Have a talk with Singa Phut? Why sure, if it will do you any good,"
said the headquarters man when the colonel had made known his desire.
"I was going to the jail on another matter, anyhow, and I might as well
kill two birds as one. They'll let you see him if I'm with you.
Otherwise you'd have to get an order from the prosecutor's office.
Come along."

It was raining when they reached the jail, and the colonel, as he heard
the patter of drops, thought of the night he had first come to
Colchester.

"There ought to be good fishing after this rain," said the colonel,
with a regretful sigh as he thought of his rods and flies.

"Fishin'!" exclaimed Donovan. "Say, that's something I haven't done
since I was a kid! I used to like it, though. Well, here we are!
Looks like a party. What d'you s'pose the warden's all lit up for?"

Certainly the gloomy jail was more brightly lighted than usual at
night, for the prisoners were locked in their cells and all
illumination, save the keepers' lights, put out at nine o'clock.

"We want to see that Dago, you know--Singa Phut," said Donovan, as he
nodded to the deputy warden who answered their ring at the steel side
door.

"Humph! Little too late," was the answer.

"Too late! What d'you mean? He's gone?"

"That's it."

"On bail? No, it couldn't be with a murder charge!" expostulated
Donovan. "He can't be out! You're kiddin'!"

"He's croaked!" answered the deputy warden. "We found him dead in his
cell half an hour ago."

CHAPTER XIV

THE HIDDEN WIRES

Donovan looked at the deputy as if about to dispute the statement. The
detective even opened his lips to speak, but no sound came through
them. Donovan sat down in a chair.

"Do you mean--" he asked, passing his hand over his face, as though to
brush away unseen cobwebs. "Do you mean that he's _dead_?"

"Sure," was the answer. "Croaked, I told you. Deader 'n a burned out
cigarette."

"Well," observed Donovan dispassionately, "that's the limit!"