It was approached from the street by a flight of broad stone steps, leading to a ponderous door, plated with iron, and secured on the inner side by huge bolts, and a lock, with wards of a prodigious size. There was only one prisoner in the ward. They were the same. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. It’s not a bit of good pretending there’s any Higher Truth or wonderful principle in this business. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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