“Officer, just fetch a glass of water,” said Dodge; “the prisoner says he feels faint.—­Look here, young gentleman,” continued he, earnestly, as soon as they were alone, “this is no use; I can do nothing for you whatever, except wish you luck, which I do most heartily.  I am as helpless as a baby in this matter.  I can only give you one piece of good advice:  when the beak asks if you’ve any thing to say, unless you have something that will clear you, and can be proved—­you know best about that—­say, ‘I reserve my defense;’ then, as soon as you’re committed, ask to see your solicitor; send for Weasel of Plymouth; your friends have money, I conclude.  Hush!  Here’s the water, young man; just sip a little, and you’ll soon come round.”

Not another word, either then or afterward, did Mr. Dodge exchange with his prisoner.  Perhaps he began to think he had acted contrary to the motto which was his guide in life in the good-will he had already shown him.  Perhaps he resented the favorable impression that the attractions and geniality of his acquaintance at the hotel had made upon him as unprofessional.  At all events, during their drive from the jail to the office where the magistrate was sitting—­it was not open at the hour when Richard had been arrested, or he would have been searched there—­Mr. Dodge seemed to have lost all sympathy for his “young gentleman,” chatting with the officer quite carelessly upon matters connected with their common calling, and even offering Mr. Coe a pinch from his snuff-box, without extending that courtesy to Yorke.  Nay, when they were just at their journey’s end, he had the want of feeling to look his prisoner straight in the face, and whistle an enlivening air.  The melody was not so popular as it has since become, or perhaps Mr. Dodge had doubts of his ability to render it with accuracy, but, as if to inform all whom it might concern what it was that he was executing, he hummed aloud the fag-end of the tune, keeping time with his fist upon his knee, “Pop goes the weasel, pop goes the weasel.”

Richard understood, and thanked him with his eyes.  He had no need, however, to be reminded of the good-natured detective’s word of advice.  The ignominy which he had just undergone had had the effect of revealing to him the imminence as well as the full extent of the peril in which he stood.  Henceforward he could think of nothing—­not even revenge—­save the means of extricating himself from the toils which every moment seemed to multiply about him.  The time for action was, indeed, but short; if he was ever (for it already seemed “ever”) to be free again, the means must be taken to deliver him at once.  The assizes would be held at Cross Key—­he had heard the Gethin gossips talk of them, little thinking that they would have any interest for him—­in three weeks.  Until then, at all events, he must be a prisoner; beyond that time he would not, dared not, look.

Within ten minutes Richard Yorke stood committed to Cross Key Jail.