The object of Sir Richard Blunt was, of course, to make the cook hear him, but no one else. With this aim he took a crown-piece from his pocket and tapped with the edge of it upon the stone-work which at that place protruded from the wall to the extent of nearly a foot. The stone shelves upon the other side were let into the wall in that fashion. The monotonous ringing sound of the coin against the stone was likely enough to reverberate through the wall, and that the cook was rather a light sleeper, or did not sleep at all, was soon sufficiently manifest, for a voice, which the magistrate recognised as his, cried from the other side— "Who is there? If a friend, speak quickly, for God knows I have need of such. If an enemy, your utmost malice cannot make my situation worse than it is."
Sir Richard placed his mouth close to a crevice, and said—
"A friend, and the same who has spoken to you before."
"Ah! I know that voice. Do you bring me freedom?"
"Soon. But I have much to ask of you."
"Let me look at the daylight, and then ask what you will, I shall not tire of answering."
"Nay, the principal thing I have to ask of you is yet a little more patience."
"Patience! patience! It seems that I have been years in this place, and yet you ask me to have more patience. Oh, blessed liberty, am I not to hail you yet?"
"Can you forget that you have another object—namely, to bring to the just punishment of the law those who have placed you and others in this awful position?"
"Yes—yes. But—"
"But you would forego all that to be free, a few short hours before you would be free with the accomplishment of all that justice and society required?"
"No—no. God help me! I will have patience. What is it that you demand of me now? Speak."
"Your name?"
"Alas!—alas!"
"Surely you cannot hesitate to tell one, who has run some risks to befriend you, who you are?"
"If, by my telling that, I saw that those risks were made less, I would not hesitate; but, as it is, London, and all that it contains now, is so hateful to me, that I shall leave it the instant I can. Falsehood, where I most expected truth, has sunk deeply, like a barbed arrow, into my heart."
"Well, I certainly had hoped you would have placed in me that amount of confidence."
"No. I dare not."
"Dare not?"
"Yes, that is the word. The knowledge of my name spread abroad—that is to say, my real name, would inflict much misery for all, I can just now say to the contrary, upon one whom I yet wish all the happiness that God can give his creatures in this world. Let it be thought that I and the world have parted company."
"You are a strange man."
"I am. But the story I have to tell of the doings in this den of infamy, will come as well from a Mr. Smith as from any one else."
"I wish you now, in a few words, to relate to me what you know, fully and freely."
"Anticipating that a statement would be wanted, I have, with no small amount of trouble, manufactured for myself pens and ink, and have written all that I have to say. How can I give you the document?"
"There is a chink here in the wall, through which I am addressing you. Can you pass it through?"
"I will try. I see the chink now for the first time since my long and painful residence here. Your light upon the other side has made it quite apparent to me. I think, by folding my paper close, I can pass it through to you."
"Try it."
In about half a minute Sir Richard Blunt got hold of a piece of folded paper, which was pushed partly through the chink. He pulled it quite through, and handed it to the secretary, who, with a nod, at once put it in his pocket.
"And now for how long," said the cook, "am I to pine for freedom from this dreadful place? Recollect that each hour here has upon its passing wings a load of anxieties and miseries, such as I only can appreciate."
"I have brought a letter for you," said Sir Richard, "which will contain all the intelligence you wish, and give you such instructions as shall not only ensure your safety, but enable you to aid materially in bringing your persecutors to justice. Place your hand to the crevice and take it."
"I have it."
"Well, read it at your leisure. Have you any means of knowing the time of day in your prison?"
"Oh yes. There is a clock in the bakehouse, by which I am forced to regulate the different batches of pies."
"That will do. Have you had any more threats from Mrs. Lovett?"
"None. As long as I perform my loathsome duty here, I see no one and hear of no one."
"Be of good cheer, your desolate condition will not last long. It is not easy under present circumstances to enter at large into matters which might induce you to declare who you really are, but when you and I meet in the bright sunshine from which you have been debarred for so long, you will think very differently from what you do now upon many things."
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall."
"Good night to you. Take what rest and refreshment you can, my good friend, and believe that there are better days in store for you."
"I will strive to think so.—Good night."
There was such a mournful cadence in the voice of the imprisoned young man, as he said "Good night," that the secretary remarked in a low voice to............