They found
themselves in a well-ventilated room, having high grated windows, through
which the stars were visible, and dimly lighted by a small gas flame which
burned in a lantern of white ground glass. The place was abundantly, if
not luxuriously, furnished with flat wooden pallets, each having at the
head a slanting piece of board supposed to do duty for a pillow. Outside
the open door a policeman paced the broad passage, a man taken from the
mounted detachment and whose scabbard and spurs clattered and jingled,
hour after hour, as he walked. The sound produced something half
rhythmical, like a broken tune in search of itself, and the change of
sentinels made no perceptible difference in the regular nature of the
unceasing noise.
Dumnoff, relieved of his handcuffs, stretched himself upon the pallet
assigned to him, clasped his hands under the back of his head, and stared
at the ceiling. The Count sat upon the edge of his board, crossing one
knee over the other and looking at his nails, or trying to look at them in
the insufficient light. In some distant part of the building a door was
occasionally opened and shut, and the slight concussion sent long echoes
down the stone passages. The Count sighed audibly.
"It is not so bad, after all," remarked Dumnoff. "I did not expect to end
the evening so comfortably."
"It is bad enough," said the Count. He produced a crumpled piece of
newspaper which contained a little tobacco, and rolled a cigarette
thoughtfully.
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