Through his lack of caution he had forfeited his own freedom, if not his life, and exposed Dot to a risk from the thought of which even his iron nerve shrank.

He told himself repeatedly, with almost fierce emphasis, that Dot would be safe, that Warden could not be such a hound as to fail her; but deep within him there lurked a doubt which he would have given all he had to be able to silence.

The fact remained that through his negligence she had been left unprotected in an hour of great danger.
Within the narrow walls of his prison there was no sound save the occasional drip of water that oozed through the damp rock.

He might have been penned in a vault, and the darkness that pressed upon him seemed to crush the senses, making difficult coherent thought.

There was nothing to be done but to wait, and that waiting was the worst ordeal that Fletcher Hill had ever been called upon to face.
A long time passed--how long he had no means of gauging.