"That depends," I answered, keeping tight hold of the tattered coat collar. "Tell me, what brings you hanging round here?"
"Used to live up in these parts once, master."
"Who are you?"
"Convict 49, as broke jail over a week ago an' would ha' died but for the little 'un there," and he nodded towards the Imp.
The convict, as I say, was a tall, thin fellow, with a cadaverous face lined with suffering, while the hair at his temples was prematurely white. And as I looked at him, it occurred to me that the suffering which had set its mark so deeply upon him was not altogether the grosser anguish of the body. Now for our criminal who can still feel morally there is surely hope. I think so, anyhow! For a long moment there was silence, while I stared into the haggard face below, and the Imp looked from one to the other of us, utterly at a loss.
"I wonder if you ever heard tell of 'the bye Jarge,'" I said suddenly.
The convict started so violently that the jacket tore in my grasp.
"How—how did ye know—?" he gasped, and stared at me with dropped jaw.
"I think I know your father."
"My feyther," he muttered; "old Jasper—'e ain't dead, then?"