“Wheal Danes,” repeated Balfour, carefully.  “I’ll remember that; and what is more, lad, I’ll not forget the man as told me of it.  It’s not the profit that I am speaking on:  that will be yours, I hope, as it should be in all reason, and not mine; but it’s the confidence.”  The old man’s voice grew husky with emotion.  “Damme, I liked you from the first, as was natural enough; but there was no reason why you should take a fancy to an old thief like me more than any other among this pretty lot here.  The first as speaks of secrets is of course the one as runs the risk, but I will do what I can to show myself honorable on my side.  You have trusted me, and I’ll trust you.”

“Have you any plan to get away from this?” whispered Richard, eagerly.  “All that I have shall be yours:  I swear it.”

“Nay, lad; your word’s enough,” returned the other, reproachfully.  “And I don’t covet nothing of yours; indeed I don’t.”

“I was a brute to talk so to you, Balfour,” answered Richard, penitently.  “But you don’t mow how I crave for freedom:  it makes me mad to think of it.”

“Ay, ay; I know,” sighed the old fellow.  “It used to be so with me once; but now it only comes on me when my term is nearly up.  One gets patient as one gets old, you’ll find.  No; I’ve no plan just now; though, if I ever have, I promise you you shall be the man to know it.  It’s another matter altogether that I meant to tell you about.  You’ve given me an address to remember:  let me give you another in exchange for it—­No. 91 Earl Street East, Spitalfields.  That’s where mother lives, if the poor soul is alive to whom you wrote for me from Cross Key.  She’ll be dead, however, long before you or I get out of this, that’s certain, or I should not be telling you what I do; for one’s mother is the best friend of all friends, and should come first and foremost.  Well, the money will do her no good; and if any thing happens to me, I have neither chick nor child to inherit it.  I am speaking of this eight hundred pound, lad.  If I get into the world, I shall want it for myself, for I doubt my limbs will be too stiff for work by that time; but if not, then you shall have it—­every shilling.  I am digging my own grave, as it might be, with this spade, and making my will, do you see?” said the old fellow, smiling.

“I thank you for your kind intentions,” returned Richard, absently; “it’s very good of you, I’m sure.”  His hopes of some scheme of present release had been excited by the old man’s manner, and this faint and far-off prospect of a legateeship seemed but of little worth.

“I may not have another chance to tell you about it,” resumed Balfour.  “It is five years now since you and I spoke together last, and it may be another five years before such good luck happens again; so don’t forget 91 Earl Street East.  It’s under the middle stone of the back kitchen, all in golden quids.  You needn’t mind it being ‘swag;’ and as for those