Just as he had told Gerald would be the case, there was nothing of interest to hear, especially as he had met the girl in London only last night. “Hospital? What for? What’s the matter with me?” Courtlaw’s voice sank to a whisper. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments.
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