“Certainly not,” replied Richard, smiling.

“I had anticipated your answer,” said the little lawyer, gayly; “but I thought it right to make quite certain.  Because, if the affair should happen to reach a stage where the question of ‘character’ is mooted (though it won’t get so far as that, I trust, in our case), one doesn’t like to be taken altogether by surprise, do you see?  You have been a landscape-painter, you say.  A most innocent and charming occupation, I am sure, and one which Smoothbore will make the very most of.  The case altogether will afford him such opportunities that he really ought to do it cheap.  And you’ve never been any thing else, have you? never had any other calling, or obtained your livelihood by any other than quite legal and permissible means—­eh?  What, what?  You have not been quite frank and candid with me, my dear Sir, I fear.”

“It is really not of much consequence,” said Richard, hesitating.

“You must allow me to be the judge of that, Mr. Yorke,” said the other, gravely, taking off his hat once more and one of his gloves.  “Imagine yourself a good Catholic, if you please, with Father Weasel for your priest.”

The confession lasted for some minutes.

“I think you will admit that what I have told you has not much bearing upon the matter in hand,” said Richard, when he had finished.

“None at all, none at all—­that is, I hope not,” answered the other, thoughtfully.  “But what an interesting revelation it is!  What a nice point as to whether the matter is an offense against the law or not!  How prettily Smoothbore would treat the subject, if it chanced to come in his way!” He looked at Richard with admiration.  “You’re a most remarkable young man, Sir; I wish that circumstances permitted of my shaking you by the hand.  Good-morning, my dear Sir.  You may depend upon my not permitting the grass to grow under my feet.  When your mother comes she will have good news for you.  Good-morning.”

The warder took possession of Richard, while Mr. Weasel, followed by the young man’s longing eyes, was ushered to the opposite door, on the other side of which was liberty.  But the lawyer’s mind was still within the prison walls, though his legs were free, and walking up the street of the little town toward his inn.

“Now, that is really a most remarkable young man,” he murmured to himself.  “A most ingenious young fellow, upon my word.  The idea of his having invented a new crime!  Why, bless my heart, it’s quite an epoch—­quite an epoch!”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE IRON CAGE.