She was always hoping some of them would get away.  She hated the sentries, rifle on shoulder, who walked their monotonous beats, back and forward, along the top of the wall.

Anthony’s house was square and substantial, with high ceilings.  It was paneled with walnut and furnished in walnut, in those days.  Its tables and bureaus were of walnut, with cold white marble tops.  And in the parlor was a square walnut piano, which Elinor hated because she had to sit there three hours each day, slipping on the top of the horsehair-covered stool, to practice.  In cold weather her German governess sat in the frigid room, with a shawl and mittens, waiting until the onyx clock on the mantel-piece showed that the three hours were over.

Elinor had never heard the story of old Michael Doyle, or of his son Jim.  But one night—­she was seventeen then, and Jim Doyle had served three years of his sentence—­sitting at dinner with her father, she said: 

“Some convicts escaped from the penitentiary today, father.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Anthony Cardew.  “Nothing about it in the newspapers.”

“Fraulein saw the hole.”

Elinor had had an Alsatian governess.  That was one reason why Elinor’s niece had a French one.

“Hole?  What do you mean by hole?”

Elinor shrank back a little.  She had not minded dining with her father when Howard was at home, but Howard was at college.  Howard had a way of good-naturedly ignoring his father’s asperities, but Elinor was a suppressed, shy little thing, romantic, aloof, and filled with undesired affections.  “She said a hole,” she affirmed, diffidently.  “She says they dug a tunnel and got out.  Last night.”

“Very probably,” said Anthony Cardew.  And he repeated, thoughtfully, “Very probably.”

He did not hear Elinor when she quietly pushed back her chair and said “good-night.”  He was sitting at the table, tapping on the cloth with finger-tips that were slightly cold.  That evening Anthony Cardew had a visit from the police, and considerable fiery talk took place in his library.  As a result there was a shake-up in city politics, and a change in the penitentiary management, for Anthony Cardew had a heavy hand and a bitter memory.  And a little cloud on his horizon grew and finally settled down over his life, turning it gray.  Jim Doyle was among those who had escaped.  For three months Anthony was followed wherever he went by detectives, and his house was watched at night.  But he was a brave man, and the espionage grew hateful.  Besides, each day added to his sense of security.  There came a time when he impatiently dismissed the police, and took up life again as before.

Then one day he received a note, in a plain white envelope.  It said:  “There are worse things than death.”  And it was signed:  “J.  Doyle.”

Doyle was not recaptured.  Anthony had iron gratings put on the lower windows of his house after that, and he hired a special watchman.  But nothing happened, and at last he began to forget.  He was building the new furnaces up the river by that time.  The era of structural steel for tall buildings was beginning, and he bought the rights of a process for making cement out of his furnace slag.  He was achieving great wealth, although he did not change his scale of living.