(It was an eccentricity of Amber’s that he invariably employed the possessive pronoun in his address.) Still the warder lingered. “There’s lots of jobs a chap like you could take up,” he said, almost resentfully, “if you only applied your ability in the right direction----” 75 raised his hand in dignified protest. “My warder,” he said gravely, “you are quotin’ the Sunday papers, and that I will not tolerate, even from you.” Later, in the Warders’ Mess, Mr. Scrutton said that as far as _he_ was concerned he gave 75 up as a bad job. “As nice a fellow as you could wish to meet,” he confessed. “How did he come down?” asked an assistant warder. “He was a curate in the West End of London, got into debt and pawned the church plate--he told me so himself!” There were several officers in the mess-room. One of these, an elderly man, removed his pipe before he spoke. “I saw him in Lewes two years ago; as far as my recollection serves me, he was thrown out of the Navy for running a destroyer ashore.” Amber was the subject of discussion in the little dining-room of the Governor’s quarters, where Major Bliss dined with the deputy governor. “Try as I can,” said the Governor in perplexity, “I cannot remember that man Amber at Sandhurst--he says he remembers me, but I really cannot place him....” Unconscious of the interest he was exciting, Amber slumbered peacefully on his thin mattress, smiling in his sleep. * * * * * Outside the prison gates on the following morning was a small knot of people, mainly composed of shabbily dressed men and women, waiting for the discharge of their relatives. One by one they came through the little wicket gate, grinning sheepishly at their friends, submitting with some evidence of discomfort to the embraces of tearful women, receiving with greater aplomb the rude jests of their male admirers. Amber came forth briskly. With his neat tweed suit, his soft Homburg hat and his eyeglass, those who waited mistook him for an officer of the prison and drew aside respectfully. Even the released prisoners, such as were there, did not recognize him, for he was clean-shaven and spruce; but a black-coated young man, pale and very earnest, had been watching for him, and stepped forward with outstretched hand. “Amber?” he asked hesitatingly. “Mr. Amber,” corrected the other, his head perked on one side like a curious hen. “Mr. Amber.” The missioner accepted the correction gravely. “My name is Dowles. I am a helper of the Prisoners’ Regeneration League.” “Very interestin’--very interestin’ indeed,” murmured Amber, and shook the young man’s hand vigorously. “Good work, and all that sort of thing, but uphill work, sir, uphill work.” He shook his head despairingly, and with a nod made as if to go. “One moment, Mr. Amber.” The young man’s hand was on his arm. “I know about you and your misfortune--won’t you let us help you?”