“No—no!” yelled forth Old Death: “it’s a lie—it’s a lie!”
“Hold your tongue, you cursed fence!” exclaimed Mr. Dykes, deeply indignant at having his word thus unceremoniously called in question. “Lady Hatfield had the paper with her, all reglar according to the stattit in that case made and purwided.”
“It’s a forgery—a rank forgery!” shrieked Benjamin Bones, his countenance becoming truly appalling with its hideous workings. “And you have let him go, upon that pretence——you——you have——”
And he fell back in his chair, gasping for breath.
“Wot an inweterate old scoundrel it is,” observed Bingham. “Here—give him a glass of beer, Bill; for, by goles, he’ll suffocate—and the scaffold will be cheated of its dues after all.”
The runner, to whom the command was addressed, approached Old Death and offered him a tumbler of porter: but the savage monster repulsed it brutally, ferocious growls escaping from his breast.
“Well—leave him alone, then,” said Bingham.
The runner accordingly resumed his seat and his attack upon the cold viands at the same time.
“I tell you what it is, Mr. Ben Bones,” exclaimed Dykes: “I have seen a many free pardons—’specially where genelmen that got into trouble was concerned, for it’s seldom that a poor devil has interest enough to get such a thing—and I know precious well that the one I see just now, was as reglar as possible. It had the King’s own name—his sign-mangle, they call it—and his precious big seal—and the Home Secretary’s signatur underneath.”
“He will escape—he will escape yet!” yelled forth Old Death, clasping his hands together, as if in mortal agony. “The wretch—he will escape the gibbet—he—he——”