"Some piece of furniture, I suppose. Well, you must be prepared to give a good sum, I fear. From the curiosity of the thing--the reputation, I mean, of poor Mr. Carew--it is likely things will fetch more than their price." "Perhaps so. But I should like to know, as soon as possible, when the sale comes off. From your connection with the place, you will be able to get news of this before the general public--I mean the exact date." "No doubt. I will write to-morrow, and beg that the information may be sent me." "I should feel much obliged if you would, Mrs. Basil." "I'll write this very night. You wish to know the day on which the sale of the furniture may be fixed?" "Yes; and of all the other things: of the estates as well, for instance; there may be some land that may prove a good investment. Don't make a fuss about it, but say you have a friend who is interested. The catalogue of effects, with the dates appointed for the sale of each, will, of course, be settled down there. I want to have an early copy." "That is very simple," said Mrs. Basil, making a memorandum in her pocket-book: "you shall be among the very first to get one, Mr. Coe--you may rely on that." CHAPTER XXXVIII. OVER THE ROOF. Richard Yorke is still at Lingmoor; and though but a twelvemonth intervenes between him and freedom--or perhaps partly because of it--prison life is growing insupportable. It is the last year of "a long term," as all "old hands" will tell you, which is the most trying. Impatience becomes more incontrollable as the limit of suffering is neared; and just as, after a tedious and dangerous illness, the convalescent will rise too soon, and risk a relapse in his feverish desire to be well, so a prisoner will often make some wild endeavors to escape, when, if he did but wait a little--a span of time compared with that in which he has lain captive--his jealous doors would open of themselves to let him pass in safety. But there are other reasons which are pressing Richard toward flight, and goading him (as he feels) to madness if he remain quiescent. He has quarreled with all about him, and has suffered for it; and he is now menaced with worse things. His sullenness, his brooding ire, have long transformed his nature; civility, and even obedience, have become impossible for him. He kicks, as it were, against a chevaux-de-frise of steel. He has been starved on bread and water, and grown thin and fierce. He has been put, and not for nothing, into the dark cell for hours, to brood, as usual, and has come forth a more reckless devil than he went in.