You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Even Blueskin looked on with anxiety. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. “My heart, my dove, I only want to heal you. This forthright dame was so excited, she could not keep still, but paced about the parlour much as Melusine had done earlier. Besides, he was a Yale man. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. “I have been bearing this—for your sake. “Your house is so huge. ” “I’m not.
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