d.

She was always hoping some of them would get away. She hated the
sentries, rifle on shoulder, who walked their monotonous beats, back and
forward, along the top of the wall.

Anthony's house was square and substantial, with high ceilings. It was
paneled with walnut and furnished in walnut, in those days. Its tables
and bureaus were of walnut, with cold white marble tops. And in the
parlor was a square walnut piano, which Elinor hated because she had
to sit there three hours each day, slipping on the top of the
horsehair-covered stool, to practice. In cold weather her German
governess sat in the frigid room, with a shawl and mittens, waiting
until the onyx clock on the mantel-piece showed that the three hours
were over.

Elinor had never heard the story of old Michael Doyle, or of his son
Jim. But one night--she was seventeen then, and Jim Doyle had served
three years of his sentence--sitting at dinner with her father, she
said:

"Some convicts escaped from the penitentiary today, father."

"Don't believe it," said Anthony Cardew. "Nothing about it in the
newspapers."

"Fraulein saw the hole."

Elinor had had an Alsatian governess. That was one reason why Elinor's
niece had a French one.

"Hole? What do you mean by hole?"

Elinor shrank back a little. She had not minded dining with her father
when Howard was at home, but Howard was at college. Howard had a way
of good-naturedly ignoring his father's asperities, but Elinor was a
suppressed, shy little thing, romantic, aloof, and filled with undesired
affections. "She said a hole," she affirmed, diffidently. "She says they
dug a tunnel and got out. Last night."

"Very probably," said Anthony Cardew. And he repeated, thoughtfully,
"Very probably."

He did not hear Elinor when she quietly pushed back her chair and said
"good-night." He was sitting at the table, tapping on the cloth with
finger-tips that were slightly cold. That evening Anthony Cardew had
a visit from the police, and considerable fiery talk took place in his
library. As a result there was a shake-up in city politics, and a change
in the penitentiary management, for Anthony Cardew had a heavy hand
and a bitter memory. And a little cloud on his horizon grew and finally
settled down over his life, turning it gray. Jim Doyle was among those
who had escaped. For three months Anthony was followed wherever he went
by detectives, and his house was watched at night. But he was a brave
man, and the