"Escape! No, no! The windows are barred with iron, besides, if I escape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that."
"But will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering the last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not commit the murder?"
"True—very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved. But how to get through the window?"
"That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now early. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember, not one word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your agent—for such I am—has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!" So saying, he departed, leaving Tom to meditate upon this extraordinary expedient.
It was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake, returned. Tom had kept his promise, and, by affording his mother hopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her bosom had been for many a week a stranger.
"Now, Tom!" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, "attend to me. I have brought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the liquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron—then use your file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed. Next fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not begin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You may get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow. As the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend with the first stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for you. He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as speedily as possible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a secret from your mother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of your acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from Edinburgh. This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your intended escape. Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and be assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of suspense than is absolutely necessary. You will not see me again in prison, I hope."
Tom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed it to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He could not speak.
Mortlake was affected. "And yet, poor kind-hearted boy," he said, "people could deem you guilty of a murder. How little did they know you! But away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part before you. See you flinch not!" Then changing his tone, and speaking loudly, "Well! I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a greedy man, I daresay, Tom, I may get him to come here."
At this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and Mortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return from Edinburgh.
Tom treasured every word in his heart—not one syllable escaped his lips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he contemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his mother, and one or two persons whom curiosity had prompted to visit him, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the fame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an able lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical.