“I shan’t be one long,” he replied, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. “Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?”
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
“Steady,” said the turnkey, still holding him down. “Now, sir, tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.”
“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 Fagin. “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 those papers?”
“Oliver,” cried Fagin, 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 Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, “are in a canvas 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.”