We are going to get the pile and then we're off to South America, and you won't see us for dust." Though he employed all the colloquialisms which were common, his tone was that of a man of education, and yet there was something in his address which told John as clearly as though the man had confessed as much, that he had never occupied any social position in life.
The warder's step on the stones outside reduced them to silence.
Suddenly his voice came up the stairs.
"Forty-three," he called sharply, "I want you down here." John took his paint pot and brush and went clattering down the uncarpeted stairs.
"Where's the other man ?" asked the warder, in a low voice.
"He's upstairs in the back room." The warder stepped out of the door and looked left and right.

Coming up from Princetown was a big, grey car.
"Put down your paint pot," he said.
His voice was shaking with excitement.
"I am going upstairs.

When that car comes abreast of the gate, ask no questions and jump into it.

Get down into the bottom and pull a sack over you, and do not get up until the car stops." The blood rushed to John Lexman's head, and he staggered.
"My God!" he whispered.
"Do as I tell you," hissed the warder.
Like an automaton John put down his brushes, and walked slowly to the gate.

The grey car was crawling up the hill, and the face of the driver was half enveloped in a big rubber mask.