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Squaring his shoulders, Follett replied, “I am Mr. Samuel Follett, the eldest son of Viscount Rodgers.”
“Oh,” the guard said, “no one has posted bail for you yet.”
“Has my father been notified?”
The guard shrugged. “That is a good question, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to that. After all, I only just arrived for my shift.”
Follett reached into his pocket and pulled out a coin. “I would appreciate it if you could get word to my father.”
The guard accepted the coin and replied, “I will see what I can do.” He slipped it into the pocket of his jacket.
Rising, Oliver took a moment to stretch his back before he walked over to the door. The guard stepped back, allowing him to exit.
Once the guard closed the door, Haskett came to the front of the cell and placed his hands through the bars. “Will you send word to my father?”
Oliver nodded. “I will see to that the moment I arrive home.”
“Thank you,” Haskett sighed.
As Oliver followed the guard down the dimly lit pathway between the cells, his eyes strayed towards all the filthy men that were huddled together. He continued to follow the guard as he led him through an open courtyard towards an iron gate that kept the prison secure.
The guard stopped next to the gate and reached behind him to reveal a pistol. “I have been instructed to return your overcoat pistol to you,” he said, extending it towards him. “For obvious reasons, we could not let you keep your pistol on your person here.”
“I understand,” Oliver replied, grateful they hadn’t discovered the muff pistol in his boot.
Oliver tucked the pistol into the waistband of his trousers and waited patiently as the guard opened the gate just wide enough for him to exit. Then, it was slammed behind him and locked.
A black coach was waiting outside of the jail, and a footman jumped off his perch to open the door. He approached the coach cautiously until he saw the familiar face of Corbyn staring back at him.
“Get in,” Corbyn ordered.
Oliver ducked into the coach and sat opposite of Corbyn. He waited for the door to be closed before saying, “Thank you for seeing to my release.”
Corbyn gave him a disgusted look. “You smell terrible.”
“That is to be expected, since I spent the night in jail.”
“By chance, did you roll around in excrement?”
Oliver brought his arm up and took a sniff of his sleeve. “I do smell rather unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant?” Corbyn repeated. “I daresay you should burn your clothes after you remove them.”
“I may just do that.”
Corbyn reached over and opened the window. “You should know that all the charges against you have been dropped.”
“How were you able to accomplish that?”
“It was no small feat, and I was forced to involve the undersecretary of the Alien Office,” Corbyn explained. “The Runners were adamant that you were to remain in jail.”
“Why?”
“Because they are blasted Runners, and they truly believe that they are God’s gifts to fighting crime,” Corbyn scoffed.
“Did you speak to Guy Stewart?”
Corbyn nodded. “He claims that you and your friends were willing participants of a violent protest.”
