There were two
children playing outside, and I remember thinking that within the
walls of a jail was surely a queer place to bring up youngsters.
But I had other things to think about. I looked up at that grim,
gray building. Behind one of those little barred windows was the
Professor. I should have been angry at Andrew, but somehow it all
seemed a kind of dream. Then I was taken into the hallway of the
sheriff's cottage and in a minute I was talking to a big,
bull-necked man with a political moustache.
"You have a prisoner here called Roger Mifflin?" I said.
"My dear Madam, I don't keep a list of all our inmates in my
head. If you will come to the office we will look up the records."
I showed him the Governor's card. He took it and kept looking at it
as though he expected to see the message written there change or
fade away. We walked across a strip of lawn to the prison building.
There, in a big bare office, he ran over a card index.
"Here we are," he said. "Roger Mifflin; age, 41; face, oval;
complexion, florid; hair, red but not much of it; height, 64
inches; weight, stripped, 120; birthmark.
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