The other boy fumbled at the ventilator in the next cell and presently succeeded in removing it. Dean, who was peering through the dark hole, managed to make out dimly a face at the other end of the opening. “Hello,” said the unknown. “Hello,” replied Dean, “thought you might like to talk a little. It’s pretty lonely here.” “Who are you?” asked the other boy. “My name is Dean Mercer.” “What! Dean Mercer? How came you here Dean?” cried the unknown, raising his voice to a dangerous pitch in his evident excitement. “And who are you?” asked Dean quickly realizing that he was talking with some one who knew him. “I’m Marcus Ellison!” It was only by a great effort that Dean kept from crying out in surprise. “Marcus,” he whispered. “How came you here?” “I was shanghaied and turned over to the police as a boy who had made his escape from some reformatory, and I have not been able to make anyone listen to me.” “It’s the same way with me.” “What happened?” “I don’t know.” “Don’t know?” said Marcus in surprise. “No. I went to sleep on the _Spray_, and the next thing I knew I was bound hand and foot in a wagon. Two men whom I didn’t know were in the wagon, and one of them forced me to drink some stuff that put me to sleep again. When I came to I was in this cell.” “Strange. And you do not know who is responsible?” “No; as I say, I did not know the men who had me captive.” “I don’t care so much about myself, but it is a shame that I should have lost those papers and money of father’s,” said Marcus. “You lost them?” “They were stolen from me by the men who captured me.” “But they were officers, weren’t they?” “No. They pretended to recognize me as the boy who had escaped, and they turned me over to an officer and claimed the reward for my capture. Hist! I think I hear the guard coming. We better quit talking for to-night. It would be too bad to have them find out the ventilator scheme. Want a paper?” “A paper?” “Yes, a newspaper.” “I thought they only let you read the library books?” “One of the boys who works in the warden’s house manages to swipe a paper now and then, and we pass it around. This is the Millville _Journal_, and it may interest you. I got it from the next cell to-day, and have not had a chance to look at it yet. But I am in no hurry, and it will interest you more than it will me.” “Thank you.” CHAPTER XVII. STRANGE MYSTERIES. Dean grasped the newspaper eagerly, replaced the ventilator and was soon seated on his bunk and looking over the columns of the journal that was welcome as a friend from home. The gas jet in his cell was burning and he estimated that it would be half an hour before the regulation time for its extinguishment would arrive. He looked over the paper with deep interest. “Hello!” he gasped. “Marcus will see this. It is worse than ever. What does all this muddle mean?” It was veritably a muddle to Dean Mercer, the allusions in the paper he read to his own case, some vague, some definite.