“And now—­this,” he said, grimly, and laughed.

Bennett, hand upon watch, turned apologetically at this juncture.

“Sorry, Sir Nigel,” he said, “but time’s up.  Ten minutes is the time allowed a prisoner, and—­and—­I’m afeared the young leddy must go.  It ’urts me to tell you, sir, but—­you’ll understand.  Dooty is dooty.”

“Yes, doubtless, Bennett, though some people’s idea of it is different from others’,” returned Merriton, with a bleak smile.  “Have no fear, ’Toinette.  There is still plenty of time, and I shall engage the finest counsel in the land to stand for me.  This knot shall be broken somehow, this tissue of lies must have a flaw somewhere.  And nowadays circumstantial evidence, you know, doesn’t hold too much water in a court of law.  God bless you, little ’Toinette.”

She clung to him a moment, her face suddenly lightening at the tenor of his words—­so bravely spoken, with so little conviction behind them.  But they had helped her, and for that he was glad.

When she had gone, he sat down on the edge of his narrow bed and dropped his face in the cup of his hands.  How hopeless it seemed.  What chance had he of a future now—­with Cleek against him?  Cleek the unraveller of a thousand riddles that had puzzled the cleverest brains in the universe!  Cleek would never admit to having made a blunder this time—­though there was a sort of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that he had blundered, though he himself was the victim.

...  He sat there for a long time, thinking, his brain wearied, his heart like lead.  Bennett’s heavily-booted feet upon the stone floor brought him back again to realities.

“There’s another visitor, sir,” said he.  “A gentleman.  Seen ’im up at the Towers, I ’ave.  Name of West, sir.  Constable Roberts says as ’ow you may see him.”

How kind of the constable, thought Nigel bitterly.  His mouth twisted into a wry smile.  Then his eyes lightened suddenly.  Tony West, eh?  So all the rats hadn’t deserted the sinking ship, after all.  There were still the old doctor, who came, cheering him up with kind words, bringing him books that he thought he could read—­as though a man could read books, under such circumstances—­and now Tony West—­good old West!

West strode in, his five-feet-three of manhood looking as though it were ready to throw the jailer’s six-feet-one out of the window upon request, and seized Nigel’s hand, wringing it furiously.

“Good old Nigel!  Gad! but it’s fine to see you.  And what fool put you in this idiotic predicament?  Wring his damned neck, I would.  How are you, old sport?”

Under such light badinage did West try to conceal his real feeling but there was a tremour of the lips that spoke so banteringly.

Good old West!  A friend in a thousand.

“Nice sort of place for the Squire of the Manor to be disporting himself, isn’t it?” returned Merriton, fighting his hardest to keep his composure and reply in the same light tone.  “I—­I—­damn it, Tony, you don’t believe it, do you?”