CHAPTER XXII 

Wingate, notwithstanding his iron nerve, awoke with a start, in the grey of the following morning, to find his heart pounding against his ribs and a chill sense of horror stealing into his brain. Nothing had happened or was happening except that one cry,--the low, awful cry of a man in agony. He sat up, switched on the electric light by his side and gazed at the round table, his fingers clenched around the butt of his pistol. Dredlinton, from whom had come the sound, had fallen with his head and shoulders upon the table. His face was invisible, only there crept from his hidden lips a faint repetition of the cry,--the hideous sob, it might have been, as of a spirit descending into hell. Then there was silence. Phipps was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide open, motionless but breathing heavily. He seemed to be in a state of coma, neither wholly asleep nor wholly conscious. Rees was leaning as far back in his chair as his cords permitted. His patch of high colour had gone; there was an ugly twist to his mouth, a livid tinge in his complexion, but nevertheless he slept. Wingate rose to his feet and watched. Phipps seemed keyed up to suffering. Dredlinton showed no sign. Their gaoler strolled up to the table. 

"There is the bread there, Phipps," he said, "a breakfast tray outside and some coffee. How goes it?" 

Phipps turned his leaden face. His eyes glowed dully. 

"Go to hell!" he muttered. 
What does the gaoler offer them?
"There is the bread there, Phipps," he said, "a breakfast tray outside and some coffee.