Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. There was only one prisoner in the ward. They drove around town that night in his Buick convertible. You are my prisoner, murderer. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life.
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