“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!”

“I agree with you,” said the colonel, and there was a curious look on his face.  “Though if you mean it’s the end I beg to differ.  It’s only the beginning.”

“How’d it happen?” asked Donovan sharply.

“We don’t know,” was the answer.  “The Dago was all right to-day, except he seemed a little glummer than usual.  He didn’t eat any supper though but that’s nothing.  Lots of times the birds in here get off their feed,” and the deputy warden made a comprehensive gesture.

“He was locked up with the rest to-night and we got sort of quiet and comfortable here and I was having a game of pinochle with Tom Doyle when one of our boarders in murderers’ row lets out a howl.  Course I went to see what it was, and there was the Dago—­croaked!”

“What did it?” asked Donovan.

“We don’t know.  Doc Warren’s in now giving him the once-over.”

“Did he have any visitors to-day?” asked the colonel.

“Yes, a fellow like himself—­Indian I reckon.  But we didn’t let him further than the corridor.  It wasn’t visiting day for the fellows in his row, so the Dago left a package and went away.”

“What was in the package?” the colonel questioned further.

“Oh, just some cigarettes.  Singa Phut didn’t like the kind we keep, and he had to have his own fancy kind.  He’s had ’em before, so we knew they was all right.”

“Was that all?”

“Every blessed thing that was in the package.  So we let him have the cigarettes.  That was about four o’clock.  He was dead at eight.  Here comes the doctor now.  Maybe he can tell you something.”

Doctor Warren, rubbing his hands to get rid of the lint from the warden’s towel, came along settling himself into his coat which he had removed the better to examine the body of the East Indian.