Although even in those days the prison licentiousness, commemorated in the Beggar's Opera and in the works of our older novelists, had been very nearly done away, yet a degree of licence existed in our gaols unknown to our stricter rule. The discipline of a prison was a very different thing then from that which it is now, and it rarely happened that a harsh magistrate interdicted a prisoner before trial from any reasonable communication with his friends and acquaintances. All that was required from the governor of a gaol was the secure custody of the prisoner's person, and if that was properly cared for, few questions of any kind were asked.
There were hours fixed, however, beyond which any visits to the prison were not usually permitted, and it was with some surprise, therefore, that Harry Martin saw the door of his cell open a few hours after the ordinary time of admission.
"A gentleman wants to speak with you, Mr. Martin," said one of the turnkeys, and the prisoner, raising his eyes, beheld a tall and powerful man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, enter the room while the gaoler held the door for him to pass in.
Harry Martin was not one to forget readily a face he had once seen, but it took the reflection of a moment or two to connect that of his visitor with the events of the past; and ere his recollection served him, the door was closed, and he stood face to face with the personage whom we have called Count Lieberg. The moment that he became aware of who it was, the brow of the prisoner contracted, and he demanded sternly--"What do you want with me?"
Lieberg's dark, keen eye rested upon him heavily, with that sort of oppressive light which seemed at once to see into and weigh down the heart of those he gazed at, and he remained for a moment or two without making any reply, as if to let the man before him feel the full force of that basilisk glance.
"When last we met," he said, at length, "you took away some papers--"
Harry Martin had by this time recollected himself, and he replied. with a loud laugh--"When last we met? Did we ever meet at all? That is the question, my fine fellow. You seem to me as impudent as a quack doctor, and I dare say are as great a liar as a horse-chanter."
"When last we met," repeated Lieberg, in an unaltered tone, "you took a pocket-book of mine, containing some papers of value to me and of no value to you. What has become of them?"
"What has become of them!" cried Harry Martin. "If I took any papers of yours, depend upon it that they are by this time what you and I soon will be."
"And what is that?" demanded Lieberg.