The other convicts had sent messages.

The man in the next cell, slowly dying of gangrene, had crawled from his pallet to beat a tattoo on the wall.

The doctor was beside himself with joy.
"You must keep calm," he kept saying in wild excitement.

"Your brother will be here to-morrow morning.

I implore you to be calm." And he brought Michael his best pipe, and some of his most cherished tobacco, and a weird suit of black clothes, and urged him to spend the evening with him in his own sitting-room.
But Michael shook his head.