"'He might walk some, perhaps--not much.' "'Will you open one of the doors?' "'All, if you like.' "The fastenings jar and rattle, and one of the doors turns slowly on its hinges. Let us look in. A small, bare cell, into which the light enters through a high chink in the wall. There is a rude means of washing, a table, and a bedstead. Upon the latter sits a man of sixty, reading. He looks up for a moment, gives an impatient, dogged shake, and fixes his eyes upon his book again. As we withdraw our heads the door closes on him, and is fastened as before. This man has murdered his wife and will probably be hanged. "'How long has he been here?' "'A month.' "'When will he be tried?' "'Next term.' "'When is that?' "'Next month.' "'In England, if a man is under sentence of death even, he has air and exercise at certain periods of the day.' "'Possible?' "With what stupendous and untranslatable coolness he says this, and how loungingly he leads on to the woman's side, making, as he goes, a kind of castanet of the key on the stair rail. "Each cell-door on this side has a square aperture in it. Some of the women peep anxiously through it at the sound of footsteps; others shrink away in shame. For what offense can that lonely child, of ten or twelve years old, be shut up here? Oh, that boy? He is the son of a prisoner we saw just now; is a witness against his father, and is detained here for safe keeping until the trial, that's all. "But it is a dreadful place for the child to pass the long days and nights in. This is rather hard treatment for a young witness, is it not? What says our conductor? "'Well, it ain't a very rowdy life, and that's a fact.' "Again he clinks his metal castanet and leads us leisurely away. I have a question to ask him as we go. "'Pray, why do they call this place the Tombs?' "'Well, it's the cant name.' "'I know it is. Why?' "'Some suicides happened here when it was first built. I expect it came about from that.'"