And William Sadd was hurried away, placed in a fly, driven off to Marston Castle, and handed over to the safe custody of the governor of that establishment. The gates of Marston Castle never closed on a prisoner more innocent of offence.
William Sadd was an inventor. His name will be chiefly known to the public in connection with a patent corkscrew, but he had devised many other useful implements from which he derived a comfortable income; for Sadd was a Scotchman, and had carefully protected his rights against all persons piratically inclined. He was born near Glasgow, where he remained for some five-and-twenty years. Then, like many of his countrymen, he came to England, and settled in the town of —, a manufacturing community in the North.
He was a sanguine, good-tempered little man, and had married a sanguine and good-tempered little wife, who bore him three sanguine and good-tempered little boys. He had at one time possessed a chum—another Scotch inventor. This man of genius—McAllister by name—had died, leaving certain papers to his friend as he lay on his death-bed. These documents, chiefly relating to uncompleted inventions, he confided to his friend with a last injunction that he should under no circumstances surrender them, but complete and patent them for the benefit of mankind and of his own pocket. Sadd gave the promise readily enough, feeling that nothing was more unlikely than that the papers would be inquired after. Much to his surprise, however, McAllister’s executors, having by some means heard of the existence of the documents, applied for them as essential evidence in a case then in hand. Sadd replied that they were not essential nor even relevant. His assertion, however, availed him nothing. Finally, the judge made an order for their production. Sadd calmly, but determinedly, refused to comply with the mandate, and was thereupon ordered to be confined in Marston Castle.
Although William Sadd felt acutely that it was an inconvenient thing to be separated from his family even for one night, he was sustained by the thought that he had done his duty, that he was the victim of a misconception on the part of the learned judge, and that his solicitor would, no doubt, set things right in the morning. When, about an hour after his introduction to the debtors and first-class misdemeanants occupying a common room in the Castle, his solicitor visited him, he became quite indignant with that luminary for suggesting that he should give up the papers. He urged the man of law to have His Lordship informed by the mouth of eminent counsel that the documents had no earthly bearing on the case.
“The whole thing’s jest re-deeckless,” said the prisoner, absolutely smiling at the absurdity of the judge’s order.
His solicitor only shook his head and went away.
Among the other prisoners William Sadd became instantly popular. He had the latest news from the outer world, and as he was going to rejoin it on the morrow, he essayed to execute all kinds of commissions for this brotherhood of misfortune. His cheery conversation had aroused the drooping spirits of those around him, when suddenly one and all became depressed again. William, following the eyes of the other victims, glanced towards the door, and, seeing a clergyman enter, instinctively rose to his feet. His example was not followed by any of the others, who turned sulkily away from beholding the ecclesiastic.
The new arrival was the Rev. Joseph Thorns, Chaplain of Marston Castle, and was familiarly alluded to by his congregation as “Holy Jo.” He was a man of small stature, and was afflicted with a deformity between the shoulders, the knowledge of which had permanently soured a temper not originally angelic. He strode up to the latest arrival, who bowed respectfully, and pulling out a note-book, asked brusquely,—
“Your name?”
The prisoner told him: but with the air of a man who regarded the formality of taking it down in a book as an operation quite superfluous, he being merely a lodger for the night.