A key turned in the lock and the heavy door opened slowly. Outside was the governor with a face as black as thunder, the chief warder and Fells. “Time’s up,” said the governor gruffly. Amber looked at the detective and nodded; then called authoritatively to the prison chief. “Take these handcuffs off, Cardeen,” he said. “What----!” “Give him the order, Fells,” said Amber, and the detective obediently handed a paper to the bewildered man. “You are suspended from duty,” said Amber shortly, “pending an inquiry into your management of this gaol. I am Captain Ambrose Grey, one of His Majesty’s inspectors of prisons.” The chief warder’s hands were shaking horribly as he turned the key that opened the hinged bar of the handcuffs. CHAPTER XII AMBER SAILS Amber went down to Southampton one cheerless day in December, when a grey, sad mist lay on the waters, and all that was land spoke of comfort, of warm, snug chimney corners and drawn curtains, and all the sea was hungry dreariness. He did not expect to see Cynthia when he came to Waterloo, for he had taken a shaky farewell the night before.... She had been irritatingly calm and self-composed, so matter-of-fact in her attitude, that the words he had schooled himself to say would not come. He was busily engaged composing a letter to her--a letter to be posted before the ship sailed--and had reached the place where in one sketchy sentence he was recounting his worldly prospects for her information, when she came along the train and found him. An awkward moment for Amber--he was somewhat incoherent--remarked on the beauty of the day oblivious of the rain that splashed down upon the carriage window--and was conventionally grateful to her for coming to see him off. He could not have been lucid or intelligent, for he caught her smiling--but what is a man to say when his mind is full of thoughts too tremendous for speech, and his tongue is called upon to utter the pleasantries of convention? All too quickly it seemed, the guard’s whistle shrilled. “Oh, hang it!” Amber jumped up. “I am sorry--I wanted to say---- Oh, dash it!” She smiled again. “You will have plenty of time,” she said quietly. “I am going to Southampton.” An overjoyed and thankful man sank back on to his seat as the train drew out of the station. What he might have said is easy to imagine. Here was an opportunity if ever there was one. He spoke about the beauty of the day--she might have thought him rude but for understanding. He spent half an hour explaining how the hatters had sent him a helmet two sizes larger than necessary and gave her a graphic picture of how he had looked. She was politely interested.... Too quickly the train rattled over the points at Eastleigh and slowed for Southampton town. It was raining, a thin cold drizzle of rain that blurred the windows and distorted the outlines of the buildings through which the train passed slowly on its way to the docks.