isted in
bearing the captive back to the office, Kit protesting his innocence at
every step. They searched him, and there under the lining of his hat was
the missing bank-note!

Still protesting his innocence, and completely stunned by the calamity
which had come upon him, the lad was borne off to prison, where, after
eleven weary days had dragged away, he was brought to trial. Richard
Swiveller was called as a witness against Kit, and told his tale with
reluctance, and an evident desire to make the best of it, for the lad's
sake. His kind heart was also touched with pity for Kit's poor widowed
mother, who sobbed out again and again, that she had never had cause to
doubt her son's honesty, and she never would.

When the trial was ended, and Kit found guilty, Richard bore the lad's
fainting mother swiftly off in a coach he had ready for the purpose,
and on the way comforted her in his own peculiar fashion, perpetrating
the most astounding absurdities of quotation from song and poem that
ever were heard. Reaching her home, he stayed till she was recovered;
then returned to Bevis Marks, where Mr. Brass met him with the news that
his services would be no longer required in the establishment.

Feeling sure that this verdict was in consequence of his defence of Kit,
Mr. Swiveller took his dismissal in profound silence, and turned his
back upon Bevis Marks, big with designs for the comforting of Kit's
mother, and the aid of Kit himself. His only regret in regard to the
matter was in having to leave the Marchioness alone and unprotected in
the hands of the Brasses, and little did he dream that to the small
servant herself, to the Marchioness, rather than to him, Kit and his
mother were to owe their heaviest debt of gratitude--but it was so
to be.

That very night Mr. Richard was seized with an alarming illness, and in
twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever, and lay tossing upon
his hot, uneasy bed, unconscious of anything but weariness and worry and
pain, until at length he sank into a deep sleep. He awoke, and with a
sensation of blissful rest better than sleep itself, began to dimly
remember, and to think what a long night it had been, and to wonder
whether he had not been delirious once or twice. Still, he felt
indifferent and happy, and having no curiosity to pursue the subject,
remained in a waking slumber until his attention was attracted by a
cough. This made him doubt whether he had locked his door last