arms and ran into the inner corridor, holding a weapon that smoked. Through the slight haze 9009 still peered forward. He could see the burglar again now, sprawled upon the floor, kicking his striped legs grotesquely. The three convicts had ceased tearing at the gate; they were crouching now at the foot of its bars, all a-twitch, while Miller and the pickpocket bent at the lock, muttering horrible curses. The red-striped highwayman glanced over his shoulder; his lips drawn back, showed a row of long, yellow teeth. A clang of working lock resounded. The three at the foot of the bars writhed in an agony of impatience. 9009, without knowing it, was moving down the corridor now, stalking, bent low, slowly, step by step, and his outspread hands slid along the walls at either side.
A hard little paw fell upon his left hand; a voice sounded in his ear: “Come back; come back,” it said. He turned. It was his cell-mate; he was looking up at him humbly, beseechingly, out of his inflamed eyes, with their red-drooping lower lids. The lock clanged again; 9009 turned
