ROOM 13 BY EDGAR WALLACE AUTHOR OF “THE FOUR JUST MEN,” “CAPTAINS OF SOULS,” “THE MISSING MILLION,” ETC. London John Long, Limited 12, 13 & 14 Norris Street, Haymarket [_All rights reserved_] [COPYRIGHT] Made and Printed in Great Britain Copyright, 1924, by John Long, Limited All rights reserved [DEDICATION] TO MY FRIEND Sir EMSLEY CARR, Kt. CONTENTS Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Chapter XVI Chapter XVII Chapter XVIII Chapter XIX Chapter XX Chapter XXI Chapter XXII Chapter XXIII Chapter XXIV Chapter XXV Chapter XXVI Chapter XXVII Chapter XXVIII Chapter XXIX Chapter XXX Chapter XXXI Chapter XXXII Chapter XXXIII ROOM 13 CHAPTER I Over the grim stone archway was carved the words: PARCERE SUBJECTIS. In cold weather, and employing the argot of his companions, Johnny Gray translated this as “Parky Subjects”--it certainly had no significance as “Spare the Vanquished,” for he had been neither vanquished nor spared. Day by day, harnessed to the shafts, he and Lal Morgon had pulled a heavy hand-cart up the steep slope, and day by day had watched absently the red-bearded gate-warder put his key in the big polished lock and snap open the gates. And then the little party had passed through, an armed warder leading, an armed warder behind, and the gate had closed. And at four o’clock he had walked back under the archway and halted whilst the gate was unlocked and the hand-cart admitted. Every building was hideously familiar. The gaunt “halls,” pitch painted against the Dartmoor storms, the low-roofed office, the gas house, the big, barn-like laundry, the ancient bakery, the exercise yard with its broken asphalt, the ugly church, garishly decorated, the long, scrubbed benches with the raised seats for the warders… and the graveyard where the happily released lifers rested from their labours. One morning in spring, he went out of the gate with a working party. They were building a shed, and he had taken the style and responsibility of bricklayer’s labourer. He liked the work because you can talk more freely on a job like that, and he wanted to hear all that Lal Morgon had to say about the Big Printer. “Not so much talking to-day,” said the warder in charge, seating himself on a sack-covered brick heap. “No, sir,” said Lal. He was a wizened man of fifty and a lifer, and he had one ambition, which was to live long enough to get another “lagging.” “But not burglary, Gray,” he said as he leisurely set a brick in its place; “and not shootin’, like old Legge got his packet. And not faking Spider King, like you got yours.”