Tom, left in solitude, would have given some days of the twelve remaining to have had him back.
The execution was fixed for the thirtieth. He would never see another June.
Bassett came from day to day with news of the petition; it was being signed, but not as freely as at first. Bassett’s disappointment was patent to the condemned man. The smart young fellow was in fact beginning to weary of his up-hill work, and to think about the bill.
So next day Tom asked Bassett whether the Noble Unknown had also abandoned hope and effort.
“Not he,” said Bassett in a half-disgusted tone. “He is moving heaven and earth; seeking private interviews with the Home Secretary, if not with the King himself. He’s quite capable of it. A wonderful man when he gets an idea into his head!”
“But what put this idea into his head?”
“Heaven knows!”
Tom looked the attorney through and through, and asked another question. “Did you tell him how much I should like to see him before I die—to thank him?”
“I did; but he is too busy working for you; he said that would do you more good.”
“I see,” said Tom, sadly; “another Culliford! Then why is he doing it? Culliford was paid; he paid him; but why, again? See here, you Bassett; both you and he disbelieve in me—I know it now—but you are tired of your job, and he is not. Why not? I believe you know! Then tell me, and let us part friends once and for all; you need bother your head no more about me, only tell me what you must know.”
“I know nothing.”
“Then what you suspect.”
