“You have some papers,” said Mr. Brownlow advancing, “which were placed in your hands for better security, by a man called Monks.”
“It’s all a lie together,” replied the Jew. “I haven’t one—not one.”
“For the love of God,” said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, “do not say that now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any further gain. Where are these papers?”
“Oliver,” cried the Jew, beckoning to him. “Here, here. Let me whisper to you.”
“I am not afraid,” said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow’s hand.
“The papers,” said the Jew, drawing him towards him, “are in a canvass bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear—I want to talk to you.”
“Yes, yes,” returned Oliver. “Let me say a prayer. Do. Let me say one prayer; say only one upon your knees with me, and we will talk till morning.”
“Outside, outside,” replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. “Say I’ve gone to sleep—they’ll believe you. You can get me out if you take me so. Now then, now then.”
“Oh! God forgive this wretched man!” cried the boy with a burst of tears.