He stopped again, and passed his shaking hand over his mouth, eyeing the two women with momentary glances, and then looking down once more.

“Yes?” said Marjorie.

He slipped off from the table, and began to move about restlessly.

“I have done nothing—­nothing at all,” he said.  “Indeed, I thought—­” And once more he was silent.

* * * * *

He began to talk presently of the Derbyshire hills of Padley and of Norbury.  He asked his wife of news from home, and she gave it him, interrupting herself with laments.  Yet all the while his eyes strayed to Marjorie as if there was something he would ask of her, but could not.  He seemed completely unnerved, and for the first time in her life the girl began to understand something of what gaol-life must signify.  She had heard of death and the painful Question; and she had perceived something of the heroism that was needed to meet them; yet she had never before imagined what that life of confinement might be, until she had watched this man, whom she had known in the world as a curt and almost masterful gentleman, careful of his dress, particular of the deference that was due to him, now become this worn prisoner, careless of his appearance, who stroked his mouth continually, once or twice gnawing his nails, who paced about in this abominable hole, where a tumbled heap of straw and blankets represented a bed, and a rickety table with a chair and a stool his sole furniture.  It seemed as if a husk had been stripped from him, and a shrinking creature had come out of it which at present she could not recognise.

Then he suddenly wheeled on her, and for the first time some kind of forcefulness appeared in his manner.

“And my Uncle Bassett?” he cried abruptly.  “What is he doing all this while?”

Marjorie said that Mr. Bassett had been most active on his behalf with the lawyers, but, for the present, was gone back again to his estates.  Mr. Thomas snorted impatiently.

“Yes, he is gone back again,” he cried, “and he leaves me to rot here!  He thinks that I can bear it for ever, it seems!”

“Mr. Bassett has done his utmost, sir,” said Marjorie.  “He exposed himself here daily.”

“Yes, with twenty fellows to guard him, I suppose.  I know my Uncle Bassett’s ways....  Tell me, if you please, how matters stand.”

Marjorie explained again.  There was nothing in the world to be done until the order came for his trial—­or, rather, everything had been done already.  His lawyers were to rely exactly on the defence that had been spoken of just now; it was to be shown that the prisoner had harboured no priests; and the witnesses had already been spoken with—­men from Norbury and Padley, who would swear that to their certain knowledge no priest had been received by Mr. FitzHerbert at least during the previous year or eighteen months.  There was, therefore, no kind of reason why Mr. Bassett or Mr. John FitzHerbert should remain any longer in Derby.  Mr. John had been there, but had gone again, under advice from the lawyers; but he was in constant communication with Mr. Biddell, who had all the papers ready and the names of the witnesses, and had made more than one application already for the trial to come on.