"Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. “I think I ought to have one.
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