“We are not going in here, John?” said Bella, clinging to him.

“Yes, my dear; but of our own accord. We shall come out again as easily, never fear.”

The whitewashed room was pure white as of old, the methodical bookkeeping was in peaceful progress as of old, and some distant howler was banging against a cell door as of old. The sanctuary was not a permanent abiding-place, but a kind of criminal Pickford’s. The lower passions and vices were regularly ticked off in the books, warehoused in the cells, carted away as per accompanying invoice, and left little mark upon it.