Throwing open the door of our ward one afternoon, the turnkey ushered in amongst us a person dressed out in the first style of fashion, and immediately again secured the door.  At first I could not believe that so fine a gentleman could possibly be a convict; I thought rather that he must be a friend of some one of my fellow-prisoners.  But I was quickly undeceived in this particular, and found that he was indeed one of us.

On the entrance of this convict dandy, the whole of my fellow-prisoners rushed towards him, and gave him a cordial greeting.

“Glad to see you, Nick,” said the fellow who had foretold the speedy apprehension of the letter-writer, as already related.  “Cursed fool to come to London so soon.  Knew you would be nabbed.  What have you got?”

“Fourteen,” replied the new-comer, with a shrug of his shoulders.

During all this time I had kept my eyes fixed on the stranger, whom I thought I should know.  For a while, however, I was greatly puzzled to fix on any individual as identical with him; but at length it struck me that he bore a wonderful resemblance to my Glasgow friend Lancaster.

His appearance was now, indeed, greatly changed.  He was, for one thing, splendidly attired, as I have already said, while at the time I had the pleasure of knowing him first he was very indifferently dressed.  His face, too, had undergone some alterations.  He had removed a bushy pair of whiskers which he sported in Glasgow, and had added to his adventitious characteristics a pair of green spectacles.  It was these last that perplexed me most, in endeavouring to make out his identity.  But he soon laid them aside, as being now of no further use—­an operation which he accompanied by sundry jokes on their utility, and the service they had done him in the way of preventing inconvenient recognitions.  Notwithstanding all these changes, however, in the new-comer’s appearance, I soon became quite convinced that he was no other than Lancaster; and, under this impression, I took an opportunity of edging towards him, and putting the question plumply to him, although under breath, for I did not care that the rest should hear it.

“Your name, sir, is Lancaster, I think?” said I.

He stared in my face for a second or two without making any reply, or seeming to recognise me.  At length—­

“No, youngster, it isn’t,” he said with the most perfect assurance.

“But you have taken that name on an occasion?” said I.

“Oh, perhaps I may,” he replied coolly.  “I have taken a great many names in my day.  I’ll give you a hundred of them at a penny a dozen.  But, Lancaster, let me see,” and he kept looking hard at me as he spoke.  “Why, it can’t be,” he added, with a sudden start.  “Impossible! eh?” and he looked still more earnestly at me.  “Are you from Glasgow, young un?”

I said I was.

“Did you ever see me there?”

I shook my head, and said, to my cost I had.