The chief warder was a man named Murray. He was short and stout, with a red face, and short, stubbly white hair--his very appearance suggested apoplexy. That suggestion was emphasised when he lost his temper--capable officer though he was, that was more than once in a while. He was in the wheel-shed, awaiting the arrival of the prisoners preparatory to being told off to their various tasks, when, instead of the prisoners, Warder Slater appeared. If Murray was stout, Slater was stouter. He was about five feet eight, and weighed at least 250 pounds. He was wont to amaze those who saw him for the first time--and wondered--by assuring them that he had a brother who was still stouter--compared to whom he was a skeleton, in fact. But he was stout enough. He and the chief warder made a striking pair. "There's something the matter with the locks of the night-cells, sir. We can't undo the doors." "Can't undo the doors!" Mr. Murray turned the colour of a boiled beetroot. "What do you mean?" "It's very queer, sir, but all over the place it's the same. We can't get none of the doors unlocked." Mr. Murray started off at a good round pace, Slater following hard at his heels. The chief warder tried his hand himself. He tried every lock in the prison; not one of them vouchsafed to budge. Not one, that is, with a single exception. The exception was in Ward B, No. 27. Mr. Murray had tried all the other doors in the ward, beginning with No. 1--tried them all in vain. But when he came to No. 27, the lock turned with the customary ease, and the door was open. Within it was Oliver Mankell, standing decorously at attention, waiting to be let out. Mr. Murray stared at him. "Hum! there's nothing the matter with this lock, at any rate. You'd better go down." Oliver Mankell went downstairs--he was the only man in Canterstone jail who did. "Well, this is a pretty go!" exclaimed Mr. Murray, when he had completed his round. Two or three other warders had accompanied him. He turned on these. "Someone will smart for this--you see if they don't. Keep those men still." The din was deafening. The prisoners, secure of a grievance, were practising step-dances in their heavy shoes on the stone floors: they made the narrow vaulted corridors ring. "Silence those men!" shouted Mr. Jarvis, the second warder, who was tall and thin as the chief was short and stout. He might as well have shouted to the wind. Those in the cells just close at hand observed the better part of valour, but those a little distance off paid not the slightest heed. If they were locked in, the officers were locked out. "I must go and see the governor." Mr. Murray pursed up his lips. "Keep those men still, or I'll know the reason why." He strode off, leaving his subordinates to obey his orders--if they could, or if they couldn't.