“Because you spend half your life in prison I suppose you’ve an idea that you’ve got a sort of proprietorial right, eh?” Still Amber made no reply. “I have tamed a few men in my time,” the governor went on, “and I don’t doubt but that I shall tame you.” Amber was looking at him critically. “Sir,” said he, “I also am something of a tamer.” The governor’s face went purple, for there was an indefinable insolence in the prisoner’s tone. “You scoundrel,” he began, but Amber interrupted him. “I am tired of prison life, my governor,” he said brusquely, “and I’ll take a thousand to thirty you do not know what I mean: I am tired of this prison, which is Hell with the lid off.” “Take him back to his cell,” roared the governor, on his feet and incoherent with rage. “I’ll teach you, my man--I’ll have you flogged before I’m through with you.” Two warders, truncheons in hand, hustled Amber through the door. They flung rather than pushed him into the cell. A quarter of an hour later a key turned in the door and two warders came in, the foremost dangling a pair of bright steel handcuffs. Amber was prepared: he turned about obediently as they snapped the irons about his wrist, fastening his hands behind him. It was a favourite punishment of Captain Cardeen. The door clanged to, and he was left alone with his thoughts, and for Amber, remembering his equable temperament, they were very unpleasant thoughts indeed. “I’ll teach him something,” said the governor to his chief warder. “I know something about this man--I had a letter some time ago from a fellow-member of the Whistlers--one of my clubs, Mr. Rice--who gave me his history.” “If anybody can break him, you can, sir,” said his admiring satellite. “I think so,” said the governor complacently. A warder interrupted any further exchange of views. He handed a letter to the chief warder with a salute, and that official glanced at the address and passed it on to his superior. The latter slipped his finger through the flap of the envelope and opened it. The sheet of blue foolscap it contained required a great deal of understanding, for he read it three times. “The bearer of this, Miss Cynthia Sutton, has permission to interview No. 634 /c.c./ John Amber. The interview shall be a private one: no warder is to be present.” It was signed with the neat signature of the Home Secretary and bore the Home Office stamp. The governor looked up with bewilderment written in his face. “What on earth is the meaning of that?” he demanded, and passed the paper to the chief warder. The latter read it and pushed back his head. “It’s against all regulations----” he began, but the governor broke in impatiently. “Don’t talk nonsense about regulations,” he snapped. “Here is an order from the Home Office: you can’t get behind that. Is anybody with her?” He addressed the question to the waiting warder. “Yes, sir, a gentleman from Scotland Yard--I gave you his card.”