"On condition that the paper shall never be used against me," answered the engraver.
"Could I not this moment give you into custody to the police, upon your own confession of having forged the plate from which the bank-notes were printed?"
"Certainly: I was wrong to make any conditions. You are a man of honour."
Markham proceeded to draw up the declaration referred to; and Pocock signed it with a firm and steady hand.
This ceremony being completed, Richard placed Bank of England notes for fifty pounds in the engraver's hand.
"Accept this," he said, "as a token of my gratitude and a proof of my forgiveness; and, believe me, I regret that my means do not allow me to be more liberal. Endeavour to enter an honest path; and should you ever require a friend, do not hesitate to apply to me."
Pocock wept tears of gratitude and repentance—the only acknowledgment he could offer for this sudden and most welcome aid. His emotions choked his powers of utterance.
Markham hurried from the room, and took his departure from the establishment which possessed such an ominous name, but which had proved the scene of a great benefit to him that evening.
He was hurrying up Brick Lane in a northerly direction—that is to say, towards Church Street, when he was suddenly stopped by an individual whom he encountered in his way, and who carried a large life-preserver in his hand.
"I suppose you were tired of waiting for me," said the Resurrection Man—for it was he.