He was also recognised by several of the police as a well-known burglar, who had been convicted several times. Gregson, who was about as hardened a ruffian as it was possible to conceive, knew and felt that his game was up; nevertheless he clung to the hope, as most criminals do of his class, that he might escape the last dread sentence of the law――perhaps his life might be spared. He was taken to Broxwell Gaol; his custodians conducted him through the lodge, then he passed through a square with a green plot of grass in the middle, encircled by a gravel walk. It was like a college quadrangle. Gregson looked at the grass and the turnkeys who came out to meet him. He was conducted up a flight of stone steps, and one of the turnkeys who had joined him and the constabulary who had him under their charge tapped at a thick oak door, which was covered with iron nails and secured with a gigantic lock. They were admitted immediately into a little room, which was almost entirely filled by a clerks’ desk and stool. Upon this stool was seated an old man, with a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, making entries in an account-book. The turnkey who had opened the door to them now closed it with an ominous sound. The key clanked loudly in the lock. The Bristol Badger was in prison. The turnkey unlocked another door and disappeared. In a few moments he returned, dismissed the constable, and ordered the prisoner to follow him. They entered a snow-white corridor, which was lined with iron doors, and above with galleries, also of iron, bright and polished. Gregson was placed in a cell, for some time in the company of a single turnkey, who stood by him, rigid and voiceless as a statue, watchful as a lynx. The “cracksman” assumed an air of dejection, and kept his eyes fixed upon the ground. He had only partially recovered from his wound. From this a vast number of shots had been extracted; but several more, it was thought, still remained in the flesh. The burning pain in his chest had not entirely left him, although it was not nearly so insupportable as at first. Presently the door of the cell opened, and a gentleman in plain clothes came in. He had a ruddy complexion, with a brown moustache and beard. Gregson recognised him immediately. He was the governor. The recognition was mutual. “So,” he said, “you have come here again?” “They’ve brought me here,” muttered the cracksman. “Precisely. Of course you know the usual forms prescribed by the authorities. We must put you through the ordeal of a warm bath. “Turn on the tap, Wilson,” said the governor; and in a few minutes the bath was filled with hot water. They took off his handcuffs, and then stood by him as he undressed. “Do you know, governor, that I’ve been wounded――well-nigh to death? It’s too bad to put a cove in hot water in my state.” “Wounded, eh? We’ll send for the doctor.” The prison surgeon was brought into the room.