Edgar Wallace by Himself by Edgar Wallace — Read

At two o'clock that afternoon I was marched off to the military prison, more curious than scared, in spite of dark hints of the fate that awaited me. Here was a new experience--imprisonment without the smear of criminality. As I passed through the grim postern I thought of poor Harry, now dead, and I was glad that I was not going inside for hitting a policeman.

"The Glass House", as the military prison was facetiously called, was like every prison I have seen. A wide hall surrounded by galleries, the walls punctured at intervals with small black doors. I was given a bath and changed into convict attire, ornamented by the conventional broad arrows, and marched up to a cell. It was a bare apartment, with a board bed and a ridiculously inadequate supply of blankets. There was a Bible and a set of rules to read, a window of frosted glass (behind bars) to admit daylight and share of a dim light at night. An hour after I arrived a warder came and cut off my hair. Nowadays such things do not happen.