“80,431, 80,432, 80,433,” read out the clerk aloud, and every soul in the room seemed listening to him.

“That will do,” said another voice close to Richard’s ear, and a light touch was laid upon his arm.  Scarlet to the very temples, he looked up, and there stood the little red-whiskered man from whom he had parted not ten minutes before.  A very grave expression was now in those twinkling black eyes.  “I have a warrant for your apprehension, young man, upon a charge of theft,” said he.

“Of theft!” said Richard, angrily.  “What nonsense is this?”

“Those notes are stolen,” said the little man.  “Your name is Richard Yorke, is it not?”

“What’s that to you?” said Richard.  “I decline—­”

Here the door of the manager’s room was opened, and out strode Solomon Coe, with a look of cruel triumph on his harsh features.  “That’s your man, right enough,” said he.  “He’d wheedle the devil, if once you let him talk.  Be off with him!”

The next moment Richard’s wrists were seized, and he was hurried out between two men—­his late acquaintance of the hotel and a policeman—­down the bank steps, and into a fly that stood there in waiting.

“To the County Jail!” cried Solomon, as he entered the vehicle after them.  Then he turned to the red-whiskered man, and inquired fiercely, why he hadn’t put the darbies on the scoundrel.

“Never you mind that,” was the sharp reply.  “I’m responsible for the young gentleman’s safe-keeping, and that’s enough.”

“Young gentleman!  I am sure the young gentleman ought to be much obliged to you,” replied Solomon, contemptuously.  “Young felon, you mean.”

“Nobody’s a felon until after trial and conviction,” observed the little man, decisively.  “Let’s have no misunderstanding and no obligation, Mr. Coe; that’s my motto.”

Here the wheels began to rumble, and a shadow fell over the vehicle and those it held:  they were passing under the archway of the jail.

CHAPTER XXII.

LEAVING THE WORLD.

What wondrous and surpassing change may be in store for us when the soul and body have parted company none can guess; but of all the changes of which man has experience in this world, there is probably none so great and overwhelming as that which he undergoes when, for the first time, he passes the material barrier that separates guilt from innocence, and finds himself in the clutches of the criminal law.  To be no longer a free man is a position which only one who has lost his freedom is able to realize; the shock, of course, is greater or less according to his antecedents.  The habitual breaker of the law is aware that sooner or later to the “stone jug” he must come; his friends have been there, and laughed and joked about it, as Eton boys who have been “swished” make merry with the block and rod, and affect to despise them; the situation is, in idea at least, familiar