He reaches the city, having tarried a while at missus’s villa, and seeks M’Carstrow’s residence, at the door of which he is met by Franconia, who receives him gratefully, and orders a servant to show him into the recess of the hall, where he will wait until such time as she is ready to accompany him to the county prison.  M’Carstrow has recently removed into plainer tenements:  some whisper that necessity compelled it, and that the “large shot” gamblers have shorn him down to the lowest imaginable scale of living.  Be this as it may, certain it is that he has not looked within the doors of his own house for more than a week:  report says he is enjoying himself in a fashionable house, to the inmates of which he is familiarly known.  He certainly leads his beautiful wife anything but a pleasant or happy life.  Soon Franconia is ready, and onward wending her way for the gaol, closely followed by Harry.  She would have no objection to his walking by her side, but custom (intolerant interposer) will not permit it.  They pass through busy thoroughfares and narrow streets into the suburbs, and have reached the prison outer gate, on the right hand of which, and just above a brass knob, are the significant words, “Ring the bell.”

“What a place to put master in!” says Harry, in a half whisper, turning to Franconia, as he pulls the brass handle and listens for the dull tinkling of the bell within.  He starts at the muffled summons, and sighs as he hears the heavy tread of the officer, advancing through the corridor to challenge his presence.  The man advances, and has reached the inner iron gate, situated in a narrow, vaulted arch in the main building.  A clanking and clicking sound is heard, and the iron door swings back:  a thick-set man, with features of iron, advances to the stoop, down the steps, and to the gate.  “What’s here now?” he growls, rather than speaks, looking sternly at the coloured man, as he thrusts his left hand deep into his side pocket, while holding the key of the inner door in his right.

“Visitor,” returns Franconia, modestly.

“Who does the nigger want to see?” he enquires, with pertinacity in keeping with his profession.

“His old master!” is the quick reply.

“You both?  I guess I know what it is,—­you want to see Marston:  he used to be a rice-planter, but’s now in the debtor’s ward for a swimming lot of debts.  Well, s’pose I must let you in:  got a lot o’ things, I s’pose?” he says, looking wickedly through the bars as he springs the bolts, and swings back the gate.  “I beg yer pardon a dozen times! but I didn’t recognise ye on the outer side,” continues the official, becoming suddenly servile.  He makes a low bow as he recognises Franconia-motions his hand for them to walk ahead.  They reach the steps leading to the inner gate, and ascending, soon are in the vaulted passage.