“’Fraid I can’t ‘wade in’ till seven o’clock—­er—­Ross-Ellison,” answered the horribly embarrassed Major Ranald.  “It won’t be long.”

“Right O, I was only thinking of your convenience. I’m all right,” said the remarkable criminal, about to suffer by the Mosaic law at the hands of Christians, to receive Old Testament mercy from the disciples of the New, to be done-by as he had done.

An Indian clerk, salaaming, joined the group, and prepared to read from an official-looking document.

“Read,” said Major Ranald, and the clerk in a high sing-song voice, regardless of punctuation, read out the charge, conviction and death-warrant of the man formerly calling himself John Robin Ross-Ellison, and now professing and confessing himself to be a Baluchi.  Having finished, the clerk smiled as one well pleased with a duty well performed, salaamed and clacked away in his heelless slippers.

“It is my duty to inquire whether you have anything to say or any last request to make,” said Major Ranald to the prisoner.

“Well, I’ve only to say that I’m sorry to cause all this fuss, y’ know—­and, well, yes, I would like a smoke,” replied the condemned man, and added hastily:  “Don’t think I want to delay things for a moment though—­but if there is time....”

“It is four minutes to seven,” said Major Ranald, “and tobacco and matches are not supposed to be found in a Government Jail.”

Ross-Ellison winked at the Major and glanced at a bulge on the right side of the breast of the Major’s coat.

At this moment the warder standing behind the condemned man seized both his wrists, drew them behind him and fastened them with a broad, strong strap.

“H’m!  That’s done it, I suppose,” said the murderer.  “Can’t smoke without my hands.  Queer idea too—­never thought of it before.  Can’t smoke without hands....  Rather late in life to realize it, what?”

“Oh, yes, you can,” said the Major, drawing his big silver cheroot-case from his pocket and selecting a cheroot.  Placing it between the prisoner’s lips he struck a match and held it to the end of the cigar.  Ross-Ellison drew hard and the cigar was lit.  He puffed luxuriously and sighed.

“Gad!  That’s good,” he said, “May some one do as much for you, old chap, when you come to be—­er—­no, I don’t mean that, of course....  Haven’t had a smoke for weeks.  Yes—­you can smoke without hands after all—­but not for long without feeling the inconvenience.  I used to know an American (wicked old gun-running millionaire he was, Cuba way, and down South too) who could change his cigar from one corner of his mouth right across to the other with his tongue.  Fascinatin’ sight to watch....”

Captain Malet-Marsac swallowed continuously, lest he lose the faculty of swallowing—­and be choked.

Major Ranald looked at his watch.

“Two minutes to seven.  Come on,” he said, and took the cheroot from the prisoner’s mouth.