an ass--

For a space he held himself rigid as a stone, his face turned away from
Mercer. His better sense won. He knew that his last chance depended
upon his coolness now. And Mercer unwittingly helped him to win by
slyly pocketing a couple of his cigars and leaving the room. For a
minute or two Kent heard him talking to the guard outside the door.

He sat up then. It was five o'clock. How long ago was it that Mercer
had seen Kedsty? What was the order that the Inspector had written on a
sheet of paper for Constable Pelly? Was it simply that he should be
more closely watched, or was it a command to move him to one of the
cells close to the detachment office? If it was the latter, all his
hopes and plans were destroyed. His mind flew to those cells.

The Landing had no jail, not even a guard-house, though the members of
the force sometimes spoke of the cells just behind Inspector Kedsty's
office by that name. The cells were of cement, and Kent himself had
helped to plan them! The irony of the thing did not strike him just
then. He was recalling the fact that no prisoner had ever escaped from
those cement cells. If no action were taken before six o'clock, he was
sure that it would be postponed until the following morning. It was
possible that Kedsty's order was for Pelly to prepare a cell for him.
Deep in his soul he prayed fervently that it was only a matter of
preparation. If they would give him one more night--just one!

His watch tinkled the half-hour. Then a quarter of six. Then six. His
blood ran feverishly, in spite of the fact that he possessed the
reputation of being the coolest man in N Division. He lighted his last
cigar and smoked it slowly to cover the suspense which he feared
revealed itself in his face, should any one come into his room. His
supper was due at seven. At eight it would begin to get dusk. The moon
was rising later each night, and it would not appear over the forests
until after eleven. He would go through his window at ten o'clock. His
mind worked swiftly and surely as to the method of his first night's
flight. There were always a number of boats down at Crossen's place. He
would start in one of these, and by the time Mercer discovered he was
gone, he would be forty miles on his way to freedom. Then he would set
his boat adrift, or hide it, and start cross-country until his trail
was lost. Somewhere and in some way he would find both guns and food.
It was fortunate that he had not given Me