Many a man's life has been argued away from him during long hours in the court above.

But just now that tragic stage is empty and silent like a church on a week-day, with the bench all sheeted up and nothing moving but the sunbeams on the wall.

A little farther and you strike upon a room, not empty like the rest, but crowded with _productions_ from bygone criminal cases: a grim lumber: lethal weapons, poisoned organs in a jar, a door with a shot-hole through the panel, behind which a man fell dead.

I cannot fancy why they should preserve them unless it were against the Judgment Day.

At length, as you continue to descend, you see a peep of yellow gaslight and hear a jostling, whispering noise ahead; next moment you turn a corner, and there, in a whitewashed passage, is a machinery belt industriously turning on its wheels.