Silas paled, was visibly perturbed, and hesitated longer than before; then responded doggedly:
"I haint got nothin' to say. I want a lawyer, I do." The judge was silent for a moment, then replied drily.
"Of course you are entitled to counsel. You will stand committed for further examination. Mr. Sheriff, adjourn court until the usual hour to-morrow morning."
It was a loving and a hopeful interview that Dorn and Mary had at his cell door that evening, and Mr. Holden had the pleasure of being present during at least a part of it, when he received the heartfelt thanks of both for his opportune aid in their darkest hour. Peter Van Deust, whose wits were manifestly failing, had not seemed to comprehend what was done in the court-room after he had sustained the violent mental shock of recognizing his murdered brother's seal, and had clamored, at the adjournment of the court, for the arrest of the New York lawyer. But the judge smilingly replied, that he would himself be responsible for the attendance of Mr. Holden, whenever it might be required, and had gone away down the main street to the tavern, arm in arm with that gentleman; a sight that had fairly stunned poor old Peter. After dinner Mr. Holden paid his visit to Dorn's cell, and the judge said he, too, would like to go along "but for the looks of it," as he "considered Dorn now virtually a free man, and had all along suspected that he was an innocent one."
The prosecuting attorney was alone in his office that evening, looking over a resumé of another case, that of a mere horse-thief, which would succeed Dorn Hackett's in order of trial—for he had already given up all hope of hanging Dorn—when the sheriff entered, with an air of mingled eagerness and caution, to inform him, in a sort of melodramatic whisper:
"Silas Thatcher's father has asked permission to see his son in his cell, and I have had him delayed until I could tell you. Do you wish to overhear their interview?"
"I—rather think—I'd like to," answered the prosecutor, meditatively. "I shall have him in hand before long, no doubt, and might as well know beforehand what he has to say for himself."
The men passed together through the sheriff's office, and by a private entrance therefrom into the rear part of the jail, first taking off their boots that their steps might not be heard on the stone floor.
When they entered the corridor, along one side of which the cells were located, they moved with caution, and noiselessly entered a dark and unoccupied cell adjoining that in which Silas was confined. After a little quiet fumbling along the wall, the sheriff found the end of a string, which he pulled, thus conveying to his assistant in the front office of the jail, where Uncle Thatcher was waiting, a private signal that all was ready. In a few minutes more the grim old man was shown in by the jailor, and permitted to enter his son's cell, the door of which was locked upon him. Every sound made there was clearly audible where the prosecutor and sheriff were.
Silas, to whom the interior of a prison was not altogether a novelty, had laid down with a sort of philosophical content upon his little cot bed, but sat up, somewhat surprised, when his father appeared. The jailor put upon the stone floor the tin candlestick holding a tallow candle which he had carried in, and went away.