"I have often heard of the bridge," said Sir Rupert; "what does that mean?"
"Oh! the bridge is simply and easily done," replied Chichester, shuffling the pack which he held in his hand. "You see it is nothing but slightly curving a card, and introducing it carelessly into the pack. Shuffle the cards as your opponent will, you are sure to be able to cut the bridged one."
"I could do that without study," observed Sir Rupert Harborough. "Is my initiation now complete?"
"There are several other schemes with the cards," answered Chichester, "but I think that I have taught you enough for this evening. One famous device, however, must not be forgotten. You have heard of the way in which Lord de Roos lately attempted to cheat his noble companions at the club? The plan practised by him is called sauter la coupe, and enables the dealer to do what he chooses with one particular card, which of course he has selected for this purpose. Now look how it is done; for I can better show practically than explain verbally."
Scarcely was this portion of the lesson accomplished, when steps were heard ascending the stairs; and immediately afterwards a heavy fist knocked with more violence than courtesy at the parlour door.
The baronet and Chichester both turned pale.
"They can't have found us out here?" murmured the one to the other in a hoarse and tremulous tone.
"What shall we do?"
"We must open—happen what will."
Chichester unlocked the door: two ill-looking men entered the room.
"Mr. Arthur Chichester?" said one.
"He isn't here—we don't know him. My name is Davis—ask the landlady if it is not," cried Chichester hurriedly, and in a manner which only served to convince the officer that he was right.
"Come—come, none of that there gammon," said the bailiff. "I knows you well enough: my name's Garnell; and I'll stand the risk of your being Chichester. Here's execution out against you for four hundred and forty-seven pounds. I don't suppose that you can pay—so you'd better come off at once."
"Where to?" demanded Chichester, seeing that it was no use disputing his own identity any longer.
"Where to!" cried the officer; "why—to Whitecross, to be sure! Where the devil would you go to?"
"Can I not be allowed to sleep in a sponging-house?"
"No—this is an execution, and a large sum, mind. I don't dare do it."
"Well, then—here goes for Whitecross Street!" said Chichester; and after exchanging a few words in a whisper with the baronet, he left the house with the sheriff's officers.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHITECROSS-STREET PRISON.
A COLD drizzling rain was falling, as Chichester proceeded along the streets leading to the debtors' prison. The noise of pattens upon the pavement; the numbers of umbrellas that were up; the splashing of horses' feet and carriage-wheels in the kennels; the rush of cabs and the shouting of omnibus-cads, were all characteristic of a wet night in a crowded metropolis.
Chichester shivered—more through nervousness than actual cold; and he felt an oppressive sensation at the bottom of his stomach, as well as at the chest.
The officer endeavoured to console him, by observing that "it was lucky he had been taken so close to the prison on such a rainy night."
The ruined young man envied many a poor wretch whom he passed on his way; for he knew that it was far easier to get into a debtors' gaol than to get out of it.
At length they arrived at the prison.
It was now nine o'clock; and the place, viewed by the flickering light of the lamp at the gate of the governor's house, wore a melancholy and sombre appearance. The prisoner was introduced into a small lobby, where an elderly turnkey with knee-breeches and gaiters, thrust a small loaf of bread into his hand, and immediately consigned him to the care of another turnkey, who led him through several alleys to the staircase communicating with the Receiving Ward.
The turnkey pulled a wire, which rang a bell on the first floor.
"Who rings?" cried a voice at the top of the stairs.
"Sheriffs debtor—Arthur Chichester—L. S.," replied the turnkey, in a loud sing-song voice.
Chichester afterwards learnt that he was mentioned as a sheriff's prisoner, in contra-distinction to one arrested by a warrant from the Court of Requests; and that L. S. meant London side—an intimation that he had been arrested in the City of London, and not in the County of Middlesex.
Having ascended a flight of stone steps, Chichester was met at the door of the Receiving Ward by the steward thereof. This steward was himself a prisoner, but was considered a trustworthy person, and had therefore been selected by the governor to preside over that department of the prison.
The Receiving Ward was a long low room, with windows secured by bars, at each end. There were two grates, but only one contained any fire. The place was remarkably clean—the floor, the deal tables, and the forms being as white as snow.
The following conversation forthwith took place between the new prisoner and the steward:—
"What is your name?"
"Arthur Chichester."
"Have you got your bread?"
"Yes."
"Well—put it in that pigeon-hole. Do you choose to have sheets to-night on your bed?"
"Certainly."
"Then that will be a shilling the first night, and sixpence every night after, as long as you remain here. You can, moreover, sleep in the inner room, and sit up till twelve o'clock. Those who can't afford to pay for sheets sleep in a room by themselves, and go to bed at a quarter to ten. You see we know how to separate the gentlemen from the riff-raff."
"And how long shall I be allowed to stay up in the Receiving Ward?"
"That depends. Do you mean to live at my table? I charge sixpence for tea, the same for breakfast, a shilling for dinner, and four-pence for supper."
"Well—I shall be most happy to live at your table."
"In that case, write a note to the governor, to say you are certain to be able to settle your affairs in the course of a week; and I will take care he shall have it the very first thing to-morrow morning."
"But I am sure of not being able to settle in a week."
"Do as you like. You won't be allowed to stay up here unless you do."
"Oh! in that case I will do so at once. Can you oblige me with a sheet of writing-paper?"
"Certainly. Here is one. A penny, if you please."
Chichester paid for the paper, wrote the letter, and handed it to the Steward.
He then cast a glance round the room; and saw three or four tolerably decent-looking persons warming themselves at the fire, while fifteen or sixteen wretched-looking men, dressed for the most part as labourers, were sitting on the forms round the walls, at a considerable distance from the blazing grate.
The