As he came in sight of it he observed a clerical-looking gentleman emerge from its entrance.
This personage was Mr. Leverall, who glanced at the gipsy.
“Uncle to the prisoner No. 43,” observed the warder, in answer to the glance of inquiry given by the chaplain.
“Ah!” said the latter, “you are the young person’s uncle—are you?” said the chaplain.
“Yes, sir,” returned the gipsy. “It’s been a sad shock to her relatives, and has fallen upon me with terrible and overwhelming force. I have come to know the rights of it, for we all of us find it hard to believe.”
“I hope and trust—and, indeed, I may say I feel assured—that I have awakened in the mind of your niece a sense of her position, which is, indeed, a most distressing one. She has no friends or relatives in this neighbourhood, I believe?”
“No, sir, not any. All her relatives reside in London.”
“You may think yourself greatly favoured in being permitted to visit her in her cell. It is against the prison rules, but the governor has kindly accorded you the privilege.”
“I am sure I don’t know how to sufficiently express my thanks,” said the gipsy, with a look which would have imposed upon the most sceptical.
Mr. Leverall passed on, and Rawton was conducted into the presence of No. 43. As he was passing through the door he slipped half a sovereign into the hand of the warder, who had been instructed to remain with the door half open, in sight of the prisoner and her visitor—so that while in this position he could not fail to hear the whole of the conversation that passed between the two, but the piece of gold had a magical effect; he withdrew out of earshot, and Bill and Miss Stanbridge were enabled to converse without reserve.