Jane had given her evidence before the stipendiary magistrates in the clearest and most lucid manner. She swore positively to the prisoner Gregson, whose features she declared had not changed since she saw them so distinctly on that fatal night. Her fellow-servant also identified the prisoner, whom she saw, so she averred, through the back-parlour window at the time Jane had hold of him by the handkerchief.
He was also recognised by several of the police as a well-known burglar, who had been convicted several times.
Gregson, who was about as hardened a ruffian as it was possible to conceive, knew and felt that his game was up; nevertheless he clung to the hope, as most criminals do of his class, that he might escape the last dread sentence of the law—perhaps his life might be spared.
He was taken to Broxwell Gaol; his custodians conducted him through the lodge, then he passed through a square with a green plot of grass in the middle, encircled by a gravel walk.
It was like a college quadrangle.
Gregson looked at the grass and the turnkeys who came out to meet him. He was conducted up a flight of stone steps, and one of the turnkeys who had joined him and the constabulary who had him under their charge tapped at a thick oak door, which was covered with iron nails and secured with a gigantic lock.
They were admitted immediately into a little room, which was almost entirely filled by a clerks’ desk and stool.
Upon this stool was seated an old man, with a pair of iron-rimmed spectacles on his nose, making entries in an account-book.
The turnkey who had opened the door to them now closed it with an ominous sound.
The key clanked loudly in the lock.