silent, hand in hand—times when they could
not speak, or, at any rate, not with any one by
to hear their words. They had the sense of
being together at such seasons, and that alone
was much.

At last the moment came when they could be
together no longer. The time allowed for such
prison visits as these were limited, and even had
it not been so they must still have separated, as
there was much work for Gilbert to do, and work
that might not be delayed.

The parting was a bitter one. It was true that
it was not for long, as Gilbert was to return
next day, and every day till—till it was over.
But for him to leave her there, a prisoner; for
her to he so left was bitter torture to both, and
Gabrielle's courage, which had stood so firm but
now, was fairly broken down when the moment
came for saying good-bye. "She would see him
again to-morrow, would she not? But, oh!
the time between." And she broke into such
bitter sobs as could not be restrained.

"Come away, sir, come away," whispered the
jailer to Gilbert. "You'd only make her worse
if you was to stay; besides, that can't be."

"Look here, sir," the man said, when they
got outside the door, repeating the consolation
which he had administered before. "She'll be
looked after, your good lady will, and be kep'
comfortable and easy in so fur as it's possible.
So don't you go fretting about her, or making
yourself uneasy in your mind, because it's no
use."

In the corridor they met the matron, and it
was a sort of comfort to Gilbert to see that she
was a woman, at any rate, of agreeable aspect,
and pleasant to speak to; a woman with
resources, strong in common sense, and with power
to influence others—one who would execute well
and conscientiously what she had to do, a person,
in fact, fit for such an office as it had come to her
lot to fill. To her Penmore in earnest terms
recommended the poor prisoner whom he had
just left, entreating the matron to be very kind
and gentle to her, to remember that she was not
there under punishment, but in confinement
only, and to be with her, herself, as much as
might be. And there was comfort to him
afterwards in the recollection of a certain
trustworthiness in the matron's manner as she
promised to do all that lay in her power, all that
was consistent with the prison regulations, to
mitigate the sufferings which belong inevitably
to a state of captivity.

The poor fellow wanted some consolation as
he walked away and felt that he was leaving his
wife behind in a jail reserved as a place of
confinement for the worst malefactors.

But there was work to do, and much of it.
It was necessary, first, to select a colleague who
could be associated with him in the conduct of
this momentous business, some one to whom he
could confide certain parts of the arrangements
for the defence, a man, too, in whom he could
himself have confidence, with whom he could
consult, and on whose advice he could place
reliance. And such a man he thought he knew
of; one with whom he had become acquainted
during the lon time that he had been in the
habit of attending the law courts; to him he
would go at once, and, having secured his assistance,
it would next be necessary to consider
what line should be adopted in preparing the
defence, and what witnesses could be found
whose evidence would be of service. To these
tasks, then, he now applied himself, with what
effect we shall not know yet, nor altogether,
till that great day of the trial comes which
will put his work to the test.

CHAPTER XXVII. A DEADLY HATRED.

Im the very heart of the city of London,
where the noise and roar of its traffic is at its
loudest, where the crowd of human beings is at
its thickest, and the movement among vehicles
of every description the most incessant, there
rises, dark, massive, unshapely, a huge mass of
forbidding-looking masonry, which forces itself
painfully on the attention of the passer-by.
This building rises to no great altitude, though
it covers a considerable amount of space. It is
chiefly its large extent, its strange clumsy
solidity, and a certain blind look which it has,
occasioned by the almost total absence of
windows, which appeal to your curiosity, and incline
you to step aside out of the concourse of persons
for ever hurrying past, and gaze up at the
ungainly pile with an interest mixed with awe.
This edifice, which is built at a corner where
two streets join, and where there is an open
space of irregular shape, and surrounded by
mean squalid-looking houses, presents on the
side which gives on the street, where the greatest
amount of traffic goes on, no break whatever in
its impregnable wall, nor gives any indication
whatever of any means of ingress or egress. In
the other wall, which faces the irregular open
space just spoken of, there are two or three small
doors, approached by mean rough flights of
steps, and remarkably out of proportion as to
their size with the huge building to which they
give admittance. If this structure was a mass
of rock growing solid out of the solid earth, it
could hardly seem more firm or less liable to
destruction. It could hardly be more silent or
more solitary, standing as it does in the midst
of London city, and with the hum of men, and
the noise of their doings going on all round
about it, if it were situated in the midst of a
vast plain, or on the top of some isolated
mountain. The walls on the side which stands in.
the great thoroughfare are smooth from contact
witli the incessant passers-by, and that very
smoothness seems to make them look all the
harder, and more relentlessly, and coldly strong.

And what can this place, so huge and silent,
and that seems to have such small sympathy
with the hurry and bustle which goes on all
round about it—what can this place be? It is
a prison. Those small doors, spoken of above as
piercing one of its walls, are either closely shut
and barred, or guarded by the police, and over
one of them there hangs, in grim indication of