He lay awake the greater part of the night, but was sound asleep when the same man re-entered with his meagre breakfast. The morning brought no comfort. A gray dawn struggled through the grimy sky-light, revealing the nakedness of the room. Cobwebs festooned the beams; the boards of the floor were dirty and mouldered; the walls in places were green with damp. Harry took silently the food offered him; he was not encouraged by the previous night’s experience to question his taciturn jailer. The morning passed slowly, irksomely; when the man returned with another meal at noon, Harry ventured to address him. "How long am I to remain caged here?" "I can’t tell ’ee, ’cos I don’t know." "You’re not one of the sailors who trapped me?" "Lord, no. I wouldn’t be a dirty swab for nothing ’cept to ’scape the gallows." "Who employs you in this turnkey business?" "That’s my business." "Don’t be surly. I’ve done nothing to you." "Well, that’s true. You ha’n’t done nothing to me. That’s true enough." "Will you do something for me, then? You’re a good fellow, I’m sure." "Nay, nay, you don’t come over me, young master. Soft speeches ain’t no good for a tough un like me. When I goes out I locks ye in, and if ye holler till ye bust, ’tis no good, not at all." "I didn’t mean that. ’Tis dull as death lying on these rotten boards with nothing to do; bring me the morning’s paper and I’ll thank you." "Well, that’s harmless enough, to be sure. Gi’ me twopence and I’ll buy ye a _Courant_." "’Tis only a penny." "True; t’other penny’s for me." Harry smiled and felt for his purse. It was gone. "Plucked clean, eh?" chuckled the man. "Trust your Wapping swab for that. All the same you shall have the paper." He returned with the morning’s _Courant_, already well thumbed. Harry ran his eye over the meagre half-sheet; there was nothing that interested him except the announcement of Lord Blandford’s death at Cambridge. "The duke has lost his heir," he thought. "He was a little older than myself. Perhaps it is my turn next." The day wore on. In the afternoon the door opened and a stranger entered along with the custodian. By his cut Harry guessed him to be a lawyer’s clerk. His movements were soft and insinuating; his face was wreathed into an artificial smile. "Good-morning, sir!" he said softly, bowing. "I have waited upon you to complete a little matter of business; a mere formality. The document is quite ready; I have here inkhorn and quill; I have only to ask you to write your name at the foot." He unrolled the paper he carried, and signed to his companion to bring the writing materials.