Monet and he took a broad path which circled for about a quarter of a mile about the grounds. As they progressed, several joined them. Fred was introduced to each in turn, but he responded listlessly. Almost at once the newcomers hurled questions at him... Why was he there? ... How long was he in for? ... What did he think were the chances of escape? Inevitably, every conversation turned upon this last absorbing topic. These men seemed eager for confidences, they wanted to share their experiences, their grievances, their hopes. But Fred Starratt recoiled. He had not yet reached the stage when a thin trickle of words fell gratefully upon his ears. He had no desire to either hear or speak. All he craved was the healing silence of open spaces. But he was soon to learn that this new life held no such soul-cleansing solace. Gradually he fell a bit apart from his chattering comrades. They passed an ill-kept croquet ground and some patches of garden where those who were so disposed could raise vegetables or flowers. There was something pathetic about the figures bending with childlike faith over their labor of love--attempting to make nature smile upon them. Without the vision of the bull pen Fred Starratt would have found much that afternoon that was revolting. But one glimpse into the horrible inferno of the morning had made him less sensitive to milder impressions. After a while Monet detached himself from the rest of the walking throng and fell back with Starratt. He seemed to have an instinctive gift for sensing moods, and Fred was grateful for his silence. They were passing by a two-story concrete building in the Colonial style when Monet touched Fred's arm. "That's the famous Ward Six," Monet explained, softly. "You'll get there finally if you work it right... It's not heaven ... but alongside the other wards it comes pretty near being." They turned about shortly after this and began to retrace their steps. Presently a man came in sight, pulling a cardboard box mounted upon four spools. "An inventor," Monet said, as Fred threw out a questioning glance. "He has an idea that he's perfected a wonderful automobile... You'll get used to them after a while." A little farther on they met a haughty-looking Japanese coming toward them. Monet plucked at Fred's sleeve. "Better step to one side," he cautioned; "that fellow thinks he is the Emperor of Japan!" Fred did as he was bidden and the Japanese swept past gloomily. "Well, at least he's happy, in his own way!" Monet commented, with a tinge of irony. Soon after that another man passed, weeping bitterly. "They call him the Weeping Willow," Monet explained. "He weeps because he can find no one who will kill him." Fred shuddered. By this time they had reached their starting point. Fred felt suddenly tired. "Let's rest a bit under the trees," he proposed.