The Man Who Was Two by Fred M. White

Many weary months had elapsed since Raymond Mallison had disappeared from the world and his place had known him no more. A year or more had dragged along, and now it was the spring of the poet, and all nature outside was rejoicing in the glorious weather. But there was little enough of that in the gloom of Slagmoor Prison, where Mallison now was, and the mere glimpse of an occasional burst of sunshine gave him a longing at the heart and a pain that almost brought the tears to his eyes. He had taken it hard enough at first, and the spirit of rebellion raged within him; but that was all gone now, and something like despair had taken the place of the more combative feeling. He had grown a little grey on the temples, and his eyes were a trifle sunken, but otherwise he had altered little. Before him lay a weary prospect, stretching out another three years at least, even with the reduction of his sentence allowable for good conduct, and the deadly monotony of it fretted him at times to the soul. Once a month he was permitted a letter or two from the outside world, but it was inevitable that his correspondence should be restricted and somewhat restrained, because before it passed into his hands it was examined by the governor of the prison.

But his friends were loyal enough; he heard at frequent intervals from Peggy Ferriss, and Sir Marston Manley, and Hetty Bond, but it was very little he gathered from these letters as to what was going on in the outer world. He knew, of course, that Walter Pennington was not dead.