All this happened Sunday morning, and in the afternoon other experiences awaited him—­his first ride in a prison van, known as a panier a salade, and his initiation into real prison life at the Sante.  The cell he took calmly, as well as the prison dress and food and the hard bed, for he had known rough camping in the Maine woods and was used to plain fare, but he winced a little at the regulation once a week prison shave, and the regulation bath once a month!  And what disturbed him chiefly was the thought that now he would have absolutely nothing to do but sit in his cell and wait wearily for the hours to pass.  Prisoners under sentence may be put to work, but one au secret is shut up not only from the rest of the world, but even from his fellow-prisoners.  He is utterly alone.

“Can’t I have a pack of cards?” asked Lloyd with a happy inspiration.

“Against the rule,” said the guard.

“But I know some games of solitaire.  I never could see what they were invented for until now.  Let me have part of a pack, just enough to play old-maid solitaire.  Ever heard of that?”

The guard shook his head.

“Not even a part of a pack?  You won’t even let me play old-maid solitaire?” And with the merry, cheery grin that had won him favor everywhere from wildest Bohemia to primest Presbyterian tea parties, Lloyd added:  “That’s a hell of a way to treat a murderer!”

The Sunday morning service was just ending when Kittredge reached the prison, and he got his first impressions of the place as he listened to resounding Gregorian tones chanted, or rather shouted, by tiers on tiers of prisoners, each joining in the unison with full lung power through cell doors chained ajar.  The making of this rough music was one of the pleasures of the week, and at once the newcomer’s heart was gripped by the indescribable sadness of it.

[Illustration:  “And when he could think no longer, he listened to the pickpocket.”]

Having gone through the formalities of arrival and been instructed as to various detail of prison routine, Lloyd settled down as comfortably as might be in his cell to pass the afternoon over “The Last of the Mohicans.”  He chose this because the librarian assured him that no books were as popular among French convicts as the translated works of Fenimore Cooper.  “Good old Stars and Stripes!” murmured Kittredge, but he stared at the same page for a long time before he began to read.  And once he brushed a quick hand across his eyes.

Scarcely had Lloyd finished a single chapter when one of the guards appeared with as much of surprise on his stolid countenance as an overworked under jailer can show; for an unprecedented thing had happened—­a prisoner au secret was to receive a visitor, a young woman, at that, and, sapristi, a good-looking one, who came with a special order from the director of the prison.  Moreover, he was to see her in the private parlor, with not even the customary barrier of iron bars to separate them.  They were to be left together for half an hour, the guard standing at the open door with instructions not to interfere except for serious reasons.  In the memory of the oldest inhabitant such a thing had not been known!