Twice each day, morning and night, he had asked a question of the jailer who brought his simple meals.

“How is Senor Alvarez?”

“He is still in a critical condition.”  The answer was always the same.

Whereupon the secret agent would return to his reading with not a shadow of uneasiness or concern on his face.

Occasionally there came a courteous little note from Miss Thorne, which he read without emotion, afterward casting them aside or tearing them up.  He never answered them.  And then one day there came another note which, for no apparent reason, seemed to stir him from his lethargy.  Outwardly it was like all the others, but when Signor Petrozinni scanned the sheet his eyes lighted strangely, and he stood staring down at it as though to hide a sudden change of expression in his face.  His gaze was concentrated on two small splotches of ink where, it seemed, the pen had scratched as Miss Thorne signed her name.

The guard stood at the barred door for a moment, then started to turn away.  The prisoner stopped him with a quick gesture.

“Oh, Guard, may I have a glass of milk, please?” he asked.  “No ice.  I prefer it tepid.”

He thrust a small coin between the bars; the guard accepted it and passed on.  Then, still standing at the door, the prisoner read the note again: 

“MY DEAR FRIEND: 

“I understand, from an indirect source, that there has been a marked improvement in Senor Alvarez’s condition, and I am hastening to send you the good news.  There is every hope that within a short while, if he continues to improve, we can arrange a bail bond, and you will be free until the time of trial anyway.

“Might it not be well for you to consult an attorney at once?  Drop me a line to let me know you received this.

“Sincerely,

“ISABEL THORNE.”

Finally the prisoner tossed the note on a tiny table in a corner of his cell, and resumed his reading.  After a time the guard returned with the milk.

“Would it be against the rules for me to write an answer to this?” queried Signor Petrozinni, and he indicated the note.

“Certainly not,” was the reply.

“If I might trouble you, then, for pen and ink and paper?” suggested the signor and he smiled a little.  “Believe me, I would prefer to get them for myself.”

“I guess that’s right,” the guard grinned good-naturedly.

Again he went away and the prisoner sat thoughtfully sipping the milk.  He took half of it, then lighted a cigarette, puffed it once or twice and permitted the light to die.  After a little there came again the clatter of the guard’s feet on the cement pavement, and the writing materials were thrust through the bars.

“Thank you,” said the prisoner.