“Come and go as you like, Wagg.  I’ll lend you a key to the small door beside the wagon entrance in case you don’t want to ring in through the guardroom.”

Mr. Wagg expressed his gratitude in proper terms and allowed that he would go and lie down for a time in order to calm himself.  Again he urged the warden to break the news gently to Vaniman’s mother and respectfully requested that Guard Wagg’s sympathy be included in the condolence in the official letter.

The newspapers of that afternoon contained an account of the tragic happening at the state prison.

That night, too, Vona Harnden kept vigil, her door locked against her mother, whose fatuous commonplaces of commiseration were like files against the raw surface of the girl’s agony.

The front parlor of the Harndens had been converted into a sleeping room for Tasper Britt.  Vona’s room was over the parlor.  She could hear the rasping diapason of his snoring.  He appeared to be sleeping with the calm relaxation of a man who had been able to eliminate some especial worries from his mind.

Furthermore, that night, the chairman of the prison commissioners had a talk with the warden over the telephone.  The warden made a guess as to how many thousands of tons of rock were piled above the body of the unfortunate victim.

“The taxpayers will never indorse the project of digging out that pit to recover the body of a convict, no matter who he is,” declared the commissioner.  “I don’t mean to sound brutal, but we must let it stand as it is.  Enter the reports of witnesses and declare the man officially dead.  Here is one case, at least, Mr. Warden, when there’s no doubt about a man being dead.”

However, shortly after twelve o’clock that night—­and the night being particularly black with an overcast sky—­Bartley Wagg opened the iron door of the big chimney and called forth Frank Vaniman and led him out through the little door at the side of the carriage entrance.

There was a conveyance waiting there, a good-sized van, drawn by a solid-looking horse.  Mr. Wagg lifted the flap of the van’s cover.

“Crawl in!” he commanded.  “You’ll find plenty of room along with the rest of the camping kit.  Roll yourself up in the tent and take it easy.  My nerves have been shocked by the terrible affair and I’m going into the mountains to recuperate.  Doctor’s orders!” He was grimly serious.

He mounted the seat of the van and drove away with his passenger and the outfit.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SHADE WHO STALLED

Mr. Wagg did not hurry.  He used several days for his trip to Egypt.  He drove leisurely along roads which led through small towns and out-of-the-way places.  That plan afforded him opportunity and excuse for pitching a tent to serve as shelter during the night stops.  And after the tent was pitched and the dusk descended, Vaniman was able to come thankfully from the hateful restraint of the van and stroll along the woodland aisles and get the kinks out of his anatomy.