That was quite true, and I understood what Harry meant; so, not to be deceitful and write false names, I wrote my maiden name first, and then Harry wrote H. Beckett, and I went into the bar and got Mr. Wilkins, who had just come in, to write his name, and then we put the names of some of the people who came in of an evening.
When I went in, the young lady was sitting in the arm-chair reading a book out loud, and the young gentleman was smoking a cigar, sitting by the table, listening to her.
“If you please, sir,” I said, “will you kindly write your names in our visitors’ book?”
If I’d asked them to come to prison they couldn’t have looked more terrified. I saw both their faces change in a moment, the young lady’s going quite white, and the young gentleman’s quite red.
His hand trembled as he took the cigar out of his mouth. But he recovered himself in a moment, and said, “Certainly—with pleasure.”
I gave him the book, and put the pen and ink by him, and I saw him exchange glances with the young lady, as much as to say, “Don’t be frightened. I’ll manage it.”
Then he took the pen and wrote in a bold, distinct hand, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith, from London.”
“Thank you,” I said; and took the book and went downstairs.
“Harry,” I said, “there’s something wrong upstairs.”
“Good gracious!” he said; “whatever do you mean?”