The captive could achieve no more than a stutter. He was an extremely little man, dressed in the Sunday garb of a civilian—fustian breeches, moleskin waistcoat, and a frock of blue broadcloth, very shiny at the seams. His hat had fallen off in the struggle, and his eyes, timorous as a hare's, seemed to plead for mercy while he stammered for speech.
"Good Lord!" cried Captain Pond, gazing at the paper. "Look, Doctor—a plan!"
"A sketch plan!"
"A plan of our defences!"
"Damme, a plan of the whole Castle, and drawn to scale! Search him, Clogg; search the villain!"
"Wha-wha-what," stuttered the little man, "WHAT'S the m-m-meaning of this? S-some-body shall p-pay, as sure as I—I—I—"
"Pay, sir?" thundered Captain Pond as Mr. Clogg dragged forth yet another bundle of plans from the poor creature's pocket. "You have seen the last penny you'll ever draw in your vile trade."
"Wha-what have I—I—I DONE?"
"Heaven knows, sir—Heaven, which has interposed at this hour to thwart this treacherous design—alone can draw the full indictment against your past. Clogg, march him off to the guard-room: and you, Doctor, tell Pengelly to post a guard outside the door. In an hour's time I may feel myself sufficiently composed to examine him, and we will hold a full inquiry to-morrow. Good Lord!"—Captain Pond removed his hat and wiped his brow. "Good Lord! what an escape!"
"I'll—I'll have the l-l-law on you for t-th-this!" stammered the prisoner sulkily an hour later when Captain Pond entered his cell.