Mr. Gray seldom alluded to his public affairs when among his children; but that evening he broke through the rule. At dessert, with little Everett, as usual, beside him, he mentioned the mysterious incident of the morning to some friends who were dining with him, adding his own conjectures as to the cause of the strange disappearance.
"It is certain he was _let out_. He could not have released himself. Circumstances are suspicious against Manby, too; and he will probably lose his office. Like Cæsar's wife, a constable should be beyond suspicion, and he must be dismissed, if"----
"Oh, papa!"--and Everett's orange fell to the floor, and Everett's face was lifted to his father's, all-aglow with eager, painful feeling.
"You don't like old Roger," said Mr. Gray, patting his cheek. "Well, it is likely you won't be troubled by him any more."
"Oh, papa! oh, papa! Roger is an ugly, cross man. But he didn't,--he didn't"----
"Let the man out. He was in the kitchen all the time. I heard him laughing."
The curly head sunk on the inquisitor's shoulder.
"Go on, Everett. What do you mean? Tell me the whole truth. You are not afraid to do that?"
He looked up, with steady eyes, but cheeks on which the color flickered most agitatedly.
"I only wanted to look at the man; and the men had left a ladder against the wall by the little grated window; and I climbed up, and looked in. And, oh! he had such a miserable face, papa! And I couldn't help speaking to him."
The tone was not so peremptory as the words; and the child, too ignorant to be really frightened at what he had done, went on with his confession, quite heedless of the numerous eyes fixed upon him with various expressions of tenderness, amusement, and dismay. And very soon all came out. Everett had deliberately and intentionally done the deed. He had been unable to withstand the misery and entreaties of the man, and he had slipped down the ladder, run round to the unguarded strong door, and with much toil forced back the great bolt, unfastened the chain, and set the prisoner free.
"And do you know, Everett, what it is you have done?--how wrong you have been?"
"I was afraid it was a little wrong,"--he hesitated; "but,"--and his courage seemed to rise again at the recollection,--"it would have been so dreadful for the poor man to go to prison! He said he should be quite ruined,--quite ruined, papa; and his wife and the little children would starve. You are not _very_ angry, are you? Oh, papa!"