"Try it."
In about half a minute Sir Richard Blunt got hold of a piece of folded paper, which was pushed partly through the chink. He pulled it quite through, and handed it to the secretary, who, with a nod, at once put it in his pocket.
"And now for how long," said the cook, "am I to pine for freedom from this dreadful place? Recollect that each hour here has upon its passing wings a load of anxieties and miseries, such as I only can appreciate."
"I have brought a letter for you," said Sir Richard, "which will contain all the intelligence you wish, and give you such instructions as shall not only ensure your safety, but enable you to aid materially in bringing your persecutors to justice. Place your hand to the crevice and take it."
"I have it."
"Well, read it at your leisure. Have you any means of knowing the time of day in your prison?"
"Oh yes. There is a clock in the bakehouse, by which I am forced to regulate the different batches of pies."
"That will do. Have you had any more threats from Mrs. Lovett?"
"None. As long as I perform my loathsome duty here, I see no one and hear of no one."
"Be of good cheer, your desolate condition will not last long. It is not easy under present circumstances to enter at large into matters which might induce you to declare who you really are, but when you and I meet in the bright sunshine from which you have been debarred for so long, you will think very differently from what you do now upon many things."