“We are sure to do that, sir; but he don’t give much trouble, and seems to make sure of getting off.”
“Oh! he does—eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That may be put on. I wouldn’t put too much trust in him. I may be mistaken; but I believe him to be a very artful, cunning fellow. I say again, keep your eyes upon No. 9.”
The turnkeys promised to do so, but they could not very well see any reason for mistrust or doubt.
At four o’clock Giles Chudley was summoned to chapel, and was ushered into a long line of fellow-prisoners, clad in the uniforms of convicted crime.
All the officers accompanied the prisoners into the chapel in the manner we have described in a preceding chapter.
The warders stood in the gallery above the seats of the convicts, every movement of whom they commanded with their eyes.
It seemed to Chudley, however, that he was the leading object of attraction, for glancing carelessly round the building, as people usually do when first entering a place of worship, he observed several pairs of eyes accompanying his own in whatsoever direction he turned them, and also that several more were fixed upon him in one long steadfast glance.
He could not help noticing this, at which he felt greatly annoyed. He had not calculated the deep interest men of every denomination take in the actions and demeanour of a murderer.