They would delay the carrying out of the death penalty for nothing short of the reprieve he carried. Punctually to the second, Ray Bennett would die. The agony of that moment was a memory that turned him grey. He brought the bumping car to a halt before the prison gates and staggered to the bell. Twice he pulled, but the gates remained closed. Dick pulled off his sock and found the soddened reprieve, streaky with blood, for his feet were bleeding. Again he rang with the fury of despair. Then a little wicket opened and the dark face of a warder appeared. “You’re not allowed in,” he said curtly. “You know what is happening here.” “Home Office,” said Dick thickly, “Home Office messenger. I have a reprieve!” The wicket closed, and, after an eternity, the lock turned and the heavy door opened. “I’m Captain Gordon,” gasped Dick, “from the Public Prosecutor’s office, and I carry a reprieve for James Carter.” The warder shook his head. “The execution took place five minutes ago, sir,” he said. “But the Cathedral clock!” gasped Dick. “The Cathedral clock is four minutes slow,” said the warder. “I am afraid Carter is dead.” CHAPTER XXXVIII THE MYSTERY MAN RAY BENNETT woke from a refreshing sleep and sat up in bed. One of the warders, who had watched him all night, got up and came over. “Do you want your clothes. Carter?” he said. “The Governor thought you wouldn’t care to wear those old things of yours.” “And he was right,” said the grateful Ray. “This looks a good suit,” he said as he pulled on the trousers. The warder coughed. “Yes, it’s a good suit,” he agreed. He did not say more, but something in his demeanour betrayed the truth. These were the clothes in which some man had been hanged, and yet Ray’s hands did not shake as he fixed the webbed braces which held them. Poor clothes, to do duty on two such dismal occasions! He hoped they would be spared the indignity of a third experience. They brought him his breakfast at six o’clock. Yet once more his eyes strayed toward the writing-pad, and then, with breakfast over, came the chaplain, a quiet man in minister’s garb, strength in every line of his mobile face. They talked awhile, and then the warder suggested that Ray should go to take exercise in the paved yard outside. He was glad of the privilege. He wanted once more to look upon the blue sky, to draw into his lungs the balm of God’s air. Yet he knew that it was not a disinterested kindness, and well guessed why this privilege had been afforded to him, as he walked slowly round the exercise yard, arm in arm with the clergyman. He knew now what lay behind the third door. They were going to try the trap in the death house, and they wished to spare his feelings. In half an hour he was back in the cell. “Do you want to make any confession. Carter? Is that your name?” “No, it is not my name, sir,” said Ray quietly, “but that doesn’t matter.” “Did you kill this man?”