"'Tis not unusual for a man to change his mind, Mr. Butler, but in this case I fear 't will be a little awkward. I am instructed that you are the Christopher Butler named in this indenture, and have to insist on your affixing your signature to it."
"Nonsense!" said Harry impatiently. "I tell you my name is not Butler, and I refuse to sign the paper. 'Tis a preposterous error. I never was in debt in my life; I know nothing of Feggans; indeed, know hardly a soul in London; why, I never was in London till a month or two ago."
"My dear sir, my dear sir," said the lawyer, as though expostulating with a hardened liar. Turning to the lackey, he asked: "You see this young gentleman?"
"Ay, ay, I do so."
Harry started. The accent was pure Wiltshire, and fell on his ears like a message from home. He scanned the man's features, but did not recognize him.
"What is his name?" went on the lawyer.
"Butler; ay, 'tis Butler, sure enough."
"Where did you see him last?"
"In the Fleet prison, to be sure, ay, and on the common side, too."
"You are sure of this?"