“This is your first time in quod, I guess, young gentleman,” observed a quiet voice beside him.

Richard started.  He had thrown one contemptuous glance upon the company when they first assembled, and had decided that they possessed no more interest for him than a herd of cattle; buried in his own sombre thoughts, he had lost consciousness of their very presence, as of that of the warder, who was pacing up and down the room with monotonous tread.  But now that his attention was thus drawn to his next neighbor, he saw that he differed somewhat from the rest; not that he was more intelligent-looking—­for, indeed, there was a reckless brutality in his expression which the others lacked—­but there was a certain resolution and strength of will in his face, which at least told of power.  But it was the tone of voice, which, coming from such a man, though it was a gruff voice enough in itself, had something conciliatory and winning in it, that chiefly attracted Richard.  Perhaps, too, the phrase “young gentleman” flattered his vanity.  We can not throw off all our weaknesses at a moment’s notice, no matter how stupendous the crisis in our fortunes, any more than, though our boat be sinking under us, we can divest ourselves of our clothes with a single shrug; and sympathy and deferential respect had still their weight with Richard Yorke.  Perhaps, too, his nature had not yet even got quit of its gregariousness, and he was not sorry to have his acquaintance sought, though by this hang-dog thief.

“I have never been in prison before, if that is what you mean,” returned he, civilly.

He who asked the question was a stout-built, grizzled fellow, of about fifty years.  He was dressed like a well-to-do farmer, but his accent smacked of London rather than the country; and his hands, Richard observed, were not so coarse and rough as might be expected in one used to manual labor, though his limbs and frame were powerful enough for the most arduous toil.  His gray eyes looked keenly at Richard from under their bushy brows, as he propounded a second inquiry: 

“What are you in for?  Forgery or embezzlement, I reckon—­which is it?”

“Neither,” answered Richard, laconically, a bitter smile parting his lips in spite of himself.

“Well, now, that’s curious,” observed the other, coolly.  “If it was not that you were sent here with the rest of us, and not shut up by yourself, I should have guessed ‘Murder’ outright, for you were looking all that a minute ago; and since it could not be murder, I thought it must be one of the other two.”

“I don’t know what I am here for,” said Richard, gloomily, “except that the charge is false.”

“Oh, of course,” rejoined the other, with a grim chuckle; “it’s always false the first time, and as often afterward as we can get the juries to believe us.  I’m an old hand myself, and my feelings are not easily wounded; but I have never yet disgraced myself by pleading guilty.  It’s throwing a chance away, unless you are a very beautiful young woman who has put away her baby, and that I never was, nor did.”