The warden accordingly departed, the barber closing the door behind him. The governor climbed into the chair and was tilted back. A crisp cloth was tucked about his collar, warm, soft suds were applied to his face and deft fingers kneaded the soap and rubbed it in among the hair roots, then the razor began mowing with smooth, even strokes over the governor's jowls--first one jowl, then the other. This much was done in a silence broken only by the gentle scraping sound of the steel against the bristles. It was the convict who spoke first, thereby violating a prison rule. He had finished with his subject's jaws; the razor hovered above the Adam's apple. "I know you," he said coldly; "you're the governor." "Yes," said his Excellency, "I am." "Then you ought to recognize me, too," continued the barber. "Take a look!" Slightly startled, Governor Blankenship blinked and peered upward into a face that was bent just above his own face. "No," he said, "I don't believe I remember you. Where did we ever meet before?" "In a courtroom," said the prisoner, "in a courtroom at ----," he named the principal city of the state, which also was the city where the governor held his citizenship. "You prosecuted me--you sent me here." All at once his voice grew shaky with passion; his features, which until now he had held in a composed blank, became distorted--a twisted mask of hatred. Sudden apprehension stirred inside the young governor. He made as though to straighten up. A strong hand pressing on his breast kept him down, though. "Stay still!" commanded the convict. "You haven't got a chance. I locked the door there when the head-screw left. And don't try to yell for help, either--I can take that head of yours off your shoulders at one swipe. Stay still and listen to me." As white under the patchings of lather as the lather was--yes, whiter--Governor Blankenship lay there, rigid with a great fear, and hearkened as his tormentor went on: "Probably you wouldn't remember me. Why should you? I was just one of the poor stiffs you persecuted when you were district attorney, building up the record that landed you in the governor's chair. 'Blood Hound' Blankenship--that's what they called you. And how you worked to put me away! Well, you had your wish. Here I am, in for keeps. And here you are, helpless as a baby, and a sharp razor right against your neck. Feel it, don't you? I'll make you feel it!" The stricken man felt it, pressing at his throat, fraying the skin, ready to slice downward into his crawling flesh. The mere touch of it seemed to paralyze his vocal cords. He strove to speak, but for the life of him--and his life was the stake, he realized that--he couldn't get the words out. In a terrible relentless monotone the torturer went on: