It was soon evident that he was no novice at his business. The few bold strokes in charcoal with which he outlined his sketch had all that firmness and accuracy that only come from long practice. With fascinated eyes the warder gazed upon the process. The gradual emergence of an interior at Oxford College, in reply to the apparently irresponsible dabs and daubs of a convict, seemed to him to savour of the miraculous. Only the iron sense of discipline which permeated their relations prevented him from openly expressing his admiration to the artist. After watching the work for about a quarter of an hour, he at length rose reluctantly to his feet, picking up the rifle which he had balanced against a chair. "I'm goin' on the stage to see about the gas brackets, Bascombe," he said. "I'll be back in a minute. You push on with that there paintin'. We want it ready for the re'earsal Friday, if you can manage it." He crossed the room to a door, which apparently opened into the street, and, turning the handle, satisfied himself that it was properly locked. Then, after a final look round and a last approving glance at the canvas, he clumped off through the narrow exit that led to the stage. For a minute or so after his departure the convict continued to paint. He was sketching in the rough outline of a fire-place, and the operation evidently engrossed his entire attention. As he worked he whistled softly and tunefully, stepping back every now and then to contemplate his labours. At last he laid down his brush, and, stretching himself with a prolonged yawn, gazed listlessly about him. His eye fell on the big basket in the centre of the room. He stared at it for a moment in a sort of idle curiosity, then with a swift glance at the door through which the warder had gone out he stepped noiselessly across and lifted the lid. Inside were several suits of clothes neatly folded and tied into separate bundles. There were also two or three cardboard boxes, each one labelled with a different name. For a moment the convict contemplated them thoughtfully; then with a sudden grin he bent down and lifted up one of the boxes. A second glance at the door assured him that he was still unobserved. Opening his find he took out its contents--a carefully dressed wig of silver-grey hair. A moment later he was standing in front of a small looking-glass upon the wall, complacently regarding its effect upon his own cropped head. The transformation was certainly a successful one. Coming right down on his forehead, without a scalp-piece to destroy the illusion, the wig altered his appearance to an extraordinary extent. But for the hideous broad-arrowed jacket below he might easily have passed for a rugged, good-natured-looking barrister or country parson. Something of this incongruity of costume seemed to strike Mr. Bascombe. With a broadening grin, he retraced his steps to the basket and silently continued his researches.