All that night Bradbury labored to save the man that was condemned to die. He knocked up the sheriff of Middlesex, and told him all.
"Don't come to me," said the sheriff; "go to the minister."
He rode to the minister's house. The minister was up. His wife gave a ball—windows blaring, shadows dancing—musics—lights. Night turned into day. Bradbury knocked. The door flew open, and revealed a line of bedezined footmen, dotted at intervals Up the stairs.
"I must see my lord. Life or death. I'm an officer from Bow Street."
"You can't see my lord. Ha is entertaining the Prootian Ambassador and his sweet."
"I must see him, or an innocent man will die to-morrow. Tell him so. Here's a guinea."
"Is there? Step aside here."
He waited in torments till the message went through the gamut of lackeys, and got, more or less mutilated, to the minister.
He detached a buffet, who proposed to Mr. Bradbury to call at the Do-little office in Westminster next morning.
"No," said Bradbury, "I don't leave the house till I see him. Innocent blood shall not be spilled for want of a word in time."