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"The third on the right is his," said the inspector. "Here it

is!" He quietly shot back a panel in the upper part of the door

and glanced through.

"He is asleep," said he. "You can see him very well."

We both put our eyes to the grating. The prisoner lay with his

face towards us, in a very deep sleep, breathing slowly and

heavily. He was a middle-sized man, coarsely clad as became his

calling, with a coloured shirt protruding through the rent in his

tattered coat. He was, as the inspector had said, extremely

dirty, but the grime which covered his face could not conceal its

repulsive ugliness. A broad wheal from an old scar ran right

across it from eye to chin, and by its contraction had turned up

one side of the upper lip, so that three teeth were exposed in a

perpetual snarl. A shock of very bright red hair grew low over

his eyes and forehead.

"He's a beauty, isn't he?" said the inspector.