"And you were present with your master when this little matter of business was arranged?" "I was so, ay." The lawyer looked with his eternal smile at Harry. "Now, sir," he said, "you will no longer delay to put your hand to this document." Harry had been thinking rapidly. He gave up the hypothesis of error; the lawyer’s visit was clearly part of a deliberate plot; it mattered little whether he was privy to it, or was innocently carrying out his instructions. No doubt there was a _Christopher Butler_ who had thus sold himself to pay his debts, but somebody had determined to substitute Harry for the real man. He had noticed that the name Christopher Butler was written in pencil every time it occurred in the document, all else being in ink; and it suddenly flashed upon him that the object had been to entrap him into signing his real name, which would then be substituted for the name pencilled in. He gave the lawyer a long look, put his hands behind his back, and said: "It is waste of time. I refuse." Again the lawyer smiled and shrugged. "’Tis immaterial, sir. This is but a duplicate; the original was signed three days ago in the Fleet. I have now to——" "Liar!" shouted Harry, springing forward, his face aflame. The door stood open; only the lackey was in a direct line between the prisoner and freedom. Before the man’s slow rustic mind had accommodated itself to the situation, he was sent reeling against the wall by a straight blow between the eyes. Harry was already out of the room, at the top of the staircase, when the little attorney seized him from behind and shouted for help. The taciturn jailer stood looking on. There were cries from below and a stampede of feet, and before Harry, with the lawyer clinging to him, had descended more than four steps he was met by the three sailors. Swearing hearty oaths they threw themselves upon him, and in five minutes he was back in the attic securely trussed up. Even his surly jailer, bringing him food, looked at him with a touch of sympathy. Harry’s haggard eyes met his with a mute appeal for help. "Odsbud!" exclaimed the man, "’tis hard on a mere stripling. If your name bean’t Christopher Butler, what be it?" "My name is Harry Rochester. ’Tis a vile plot. You believe me?" "Ay, I believe ye. Tain’t in reason that a boy should ha’ got ocean deep in debt." "Will you help me? You see what a snare is about me. Will you go to the Star and Garter in Leicester fields and ask for Sherebiah Minshull? Tell him where I am, and what they are going to do with me." "But what’d be the good, mister?" "He would find a way to help me. You would know that if you knew him." "And how much might ye be willing to pay, now?" "I haven’t a penny, as you know, but he had some money. Lose no time; pray go now, at once." "Well, the truth on’t is I’m paid by t’other party." "Who is it? What is the name of the man who has hired you?"