"Would it be against the rules for me to write an answer to this?"
queried Signor Petrozinni, and he indicated the note.
"Certainly not," was the reply.
"If I might trouble you, then, for pen and ink and paper?" suggested the
signor and he smiled a little. "Believe me, I would prefer to get them
for myself."
"I guess that's right," the guard grinned good-naturedly.
Again he went away and the prisoner sat thoughtfully sipping the milk.
He took half of it, then lighted a cigarette, puffed it once or twice
and permitted the light to die. After a little there came again the
clatter of the guard's feet on the cement pavement, and the writing
materials were thrust through the bars.
"Thank you," said the prisoner.
The guard went on, with a nod, and a moment later the signor heard the
clangor of a steel door down the corridor as it was closed and locked.
He leaned forward in his chair with half-closed eyes, listening for a
long time, then rose and noiselessly approached the cell door. Again he
listened intently, after which he resumed his seat. He tossed away the
cigarette he had and lighted a fresh one, afterward holding the note
over the flame of the match.
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