"Mr. Arthur Chichester?" said one.
"He isn't here—we don't know him. My name is Davis—ask the landlady if it is not," cried Chichester hurriedly, and in a manner which only served to convince the officer that he was right.
"Come—come, none of that there gammon," said the bailiff. "I knows you well enough: my name's Garnell; and I'll stand the risk of your being Chichester. Here's execution out against you for four hundred and forty-seven pounds. I don't suppose that you can pay—so you'd better come off at once."
"Where to?" demanded Chichester, seeing that it was no use disputing his own identity any longer.
"Where to!" cried the officer; "why—to Whitecross, to be sure! Where the devil would you go to?"
"Can I not be allowed to sleep in a sponging-house?"
"No—this is an execution, and a large sum, mind. I don't dare do it."
"Well, then—here goes for Whitecross Street!" said Chichester; and after exchanging a few words in a whisper with the baronet, he left the house with the sheriff's officers.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHITECROSS-STREET PRISON.
A COLD drizzling rain was falling, as Chichester proceeded along the streets leading to the debtors' prison. The noise of pattens upon the pavement; the numbers of umbrellas that were up; the splashing of horses' feet and carriage-wheels in the kennels; the rush of cabs and the shouting of omnibus-cads, were all characteristic of a wet night in a crowded metropolis.