He was aware, though he gave no sign of it, that a guard was watching
him. The cop on duty was an old hand--he probably expected some reaction
other than passive acceptance from the prisoner. But he was not going
to get it. The law had Ross sewed up tight this time. Why didn't they
get about the business of shipping him off? Why had he had that
afternoon session with the skull thumper? Ross had been on the defensive
then, and he had not liked it. He had given to the other's questions all
the attention his shrewd mind could muster, but a faint, very faint,
apprehension still clung to the memory of that meeting.
The door of the detention room opened. Ross did not turn his head, but
the guard cleared his throat as if their hour of mutual silence had
dried his vocal cords. "On your feet, Murdock! The judge wants to see
you."
Ross rose smoothly, with every muscle under fluid control. It never paid
to talk back, to allow any sign of defiance to show. He would go through
the motions as if he were a bad little boy who had realized his errors.
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