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The prisoner looked up, at each question. Carton, standing over

him with his hand in his breast, looked down.

"'If you remember,'" said Carton, dictating, "'the words that

passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this

when you see it. You do remember them, I know. It is not in your

nature to forget them.'"

He was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to

look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped,

closing upon something.

"Have you written 'forget them'?" Carton asked.

"I have. Is that a weapon in your hand?"

"No; I am not armed."

"What is it in your hand?"

"You shall know directly. Write on; there are but a few words

more." He dictated again. "'I am thankful that the time has come,

when I can prove them. That I do so is no subject for regret or

grief.'" As he said these words with his eyes fixed on the

writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the

writer's face.