The stool baker, from concealment, saw the package delivered to Winwood and so reported to the Captain of the Yard next morning.
But in the meantime the poet-forger's too-lively imagination ran away with him.

He was guilty of a slip that gave me five years of solitary confinement and that placed me in this condemned cell in which I now write.

And all the time I knew nothing about it.

I did not even know of the break he had inveigled the forty lifers into planning.

I knew nothing, absolutely nothing.