A fortnight passed, then a month. That is what I’ve had on my conscience. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered. Fretting and fidgeting, he had, after an hour or so, turned to McClintock. So frightful, indeed, were the ravages of this malady, to which debtors and felons were alike exposed, that its miserable victims were frequently carried out by cart-loads, and thrown into a pit in the burial-ground of Christ-church, without ceremony. “What has she told you?” “Everything. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea.
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