The String of Pealrs (1850), p. 267

"Derange your what?"
"My plans."
"And are any plans to be placed in competition with my life and liberty? Oh, human nature—human nature, what a difference there is in you when you are upon the right side of the door from what you are when you are upon the wrong."
"My friend," said Sir Richard Blunt, "that is a very philosophical remark, and I compliment you upon it. But now answer me truly one question, and for your own sake, and for the sake of justice, I beg you to answer me truly."
"What is it?"
"Are you in present fear of death?"
"No. Not while I continue to make the pies."
"Very good!"
"Very good? Now by all that's abominable, I only wish you had but to make them here for one week, and at the same time know as much as I know—I rather suspect that you would never say very good again."
"One week?"
"Yes. only a week."
"Pray how long have you been here?"
"I have lost count of the long weary days and the anxious nights. Oh, sir, be you whom you may, do not sport with me, for I am very—very wretched!"
"If I could but be sure that you are a victim of the woman who lives above," said Sir Richard.
"Sure that I am a victim? Oh, God, you suspect me of being her accomplice. Well, well, it is but natural, finding me here—I ought to expect as much. What can I say—what can I do to convince you of the contrary?"
"Reveal all."
"Do you not know then that—that——"
"That what? I may suspect much, but I know nothing."
"Then—then——"
The man's voice sunk to a husky whisper, and when he had spoken a few words there was a death-like silence between him and Sir Richard Blunt. The latter at length said—
"And you affirm this?"
"I am willing to swear to it. Release me from here and take me to any court of justice you please, and I will affirm it. If you have any suspicion of my good faith, manacle me—bind me up in iron until I tell all."
"I am convinced."
"Oh, joy, I shall look upon the blessed sun again. I shall see the green fields—I shall hear the lark sing, and drink in the odour of sweet flowers. I—I am not quite desolate."
Sir Richard Blunt could hear him sobbing like a child. The magistrate did not interrupt this burst of feeling. He was, on the contrary, quite glad to be a witness of it, for it convinced him of the sincerity of the man. He could not think it possible he should find attending upon Mrs. Lovett's ovens so consummate
an actor as it would have taken to play that part. After a few moments, however, he spoke, saying—
"Now, my friend, are you one who will listen to reason in preference to merely acting upon the feelings and suggestions of the moment?"
"I hope so."
"Well, then, I think I could set you free to-night, but to do so would materially interfere with the course of that justice which is about speedily to overtake Mrs. Lovett. By remaining here you will keep things as they are for the present, and that, I assure you, is a great object. You say that while you continue making
pies, your life is not in positive peril; I ask of you, for the sake of justice, to put up with your present position a short time longer."
"Liberty is sweet."
"It is, but you would not like such a woman as Mrs. Lovett to take the alarm and escape the consequences of her crimes."