After he had taken his bath, and had re-dressed himself he felt a little refreshed, and he was told to walk in front of his conductor.
He ascended a flight of iron stairs into a lofty hall with a glass roof like a railway station, and on either side of this were galleries one above the other, forming tiers with cells along each, the doors of which were all numbered; a number was shouted in a loud voice by his attendant, when a warder on the first flight told Peace to come up stairs; he obeyed, and was at once ushered into his cell, which he was told must be kept as clean as he then saw it—that it would be requisite to scrub it every day. His attention was then directed to a printed list of rules, with which he was to make himself acquainted.
All these formalities he had gone through on other occasions, but he did not choose to appear as if he knew anything about them; he was desirous of passing off as a green-hand, he had never been in Newgate before and none of the officials knew him—it was quite time enough for him to acknowledge that he had been convicted before upon the charge of burglary when he was recognised by other prison officials.
When the door of his cell was closed, and he found himself alone in his narrow prison-house his heart seemed to sink within him; there was no telling what might be the issue of this capture.
In any case, taking the most favourable view of it, he was certain to be sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.
This was but a natural consequence, and this he was prepared to undergo, but if by any chance he should be identified as the celebrated Charles Peace, of Sheffield and Banner-cross notoriety, his life would be forfeited.
“Oh,” he murmured, “there is that cursed woman who I have never trusted out of my sight since I first became acquainted with her. What will she do? Send me to the gallows, I expect. Oh, I wish I could see Bill Rawton; he’s the only man I can rely upon.”
After these observations he fell into a reverie; then he proceeded to examine his cell and its furniture. It was much the same as the others he had been shut up in.
It was a brick-arched apartment, about 12 ft. by 7 ft. There was the same description of wash-basin, the same flap table and wooden stool, the enamelled plate, tin mug, wooden spoon, and salt-box, he had been accustomed to in the earlier days of his prison life. At the sight of these old familiar objects his heart grew sick.
“Hang it all! I have been a fool,” he murmured. “I can see that plainly enough, now that it is too late.”