'Oliver,' cried Fagin, beckoning to him. 'Here, here! Let me whisper to you.'
'I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.
'The papers,' said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, 'are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.'
'Yes, yes,' returned Oliver. 'Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.'
'Outside, outside,' replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. 'Say I've gone to sleep-they'll believe you. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!'
'Oh! God forgive this wretched man!' cried the boy with a burst of tears.
'That's right, that's right,' said Fagin. 'That'll help us on.
This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!'
'Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?' inquired the turnkey.
'No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position-'
'Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking his head.
'You had better leave him.'
The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.