The lad gave him time to recover himself a bit; then, after glancing around the corridor to see that no one was listening, returned to his patient. “I am here in the interest of your friends! I leave to-night. Tomorrow you will receive a communication from your friends. We must hasten our plans for Thomson is expected on a visit here any day.” “Go on; go on; tell me what to do.” “There is nothing for you to do but to be ready at a moment’s notice. The plans are all well laid, and will be successful, unless Thomson should upset us.” “I fear that man,” replied Warren with a shudder. “You certainly have good reason,” said Allen. “But he does not reside in this vicinity and we may be able to avoid him.” “He would be only too happy to wreak his vengeance upon me. Yes, I fear him.” Allen did his best to reassure Warren, and discussed with him the plan of escape as far as he knew it, and concluded by saying: “I shall not see you again. Keep up your heart. Barring accident, you will soon be free.” At night Allen went as usual to the well to draw the water for supper, and did not return. The alarm was given, but no trace of the boy was found. CHAPTER XIII. The next morning dawned hot and sultry; all day there were signs of a thunder storm. Towards dark the door of Warren’s cell opened and a young man with a carpet bag, apparently in a great hurry to catch a train, and accompanied by the jailer, came to the grated door and informed Warren that he had been requested by the British consul at New York, who had heard of his case, to see him and to say to him that his case would be investigated and all done that could be done, and that he would hear from the consul in person in a few days. The visitor was quite curious about the hall, looking around a great deal, and as he stood with his back to the grated door talking to the jailer, whose attention he directed to some means of ventilation outside, Warren saw a small slip of paper in the hand which he held behind him, and took it. When he was alone again, he unfolded it with trembling fingers. It contained the words: “Be ready at midnight.” Scarcely had he recovered from the excitement which the note caused him, when he heard footsteps and voices again approaching his cell and in a few seconds the sallow, uncanny face of Bill Thomson was framed in the doorway. “It seems to me, you fellows ain’t as careful as you might be. Had a visitor sent by the British consul, did he? Well that won’t save his neck. I tell you, Bub,” he said, directly addressing the prisoner, “saltpetre won’t save you. You’ve got to go, by G--d. D----n these newspaper men I say; a set of ornery skunks; meddling with business that don’t consarn ’em. But they don’t euchre me this deal.”