"Lord bless me !" exclaimed Crossbone. "The night gave one of his happiest shudders. "Now, we are happy, very happy; few wed-air is poison-absolute poison. No, the time ded couples more so: very happy"-and Snipeton would be from-let me see-from eleven to ground the words beneath all the teeth he had, three." and looked furiously content. Crossbone stared at the writhing image of connubial love. "You certainly look happy-extraordinarily happy," drawled the apothecary. Therefore "Impossible; quite impossible. Can't leave business-certain ruin," cried Snipeton. "Certain death, then," said Crossbone, and he slowly, solemnly drained his glass. "Certain death," he repeated. "Don't say that, Crossbone," cried Snipeton, softened. "Mrs. Wilton, perhaps she rides, and "As for Mrs. Wilton, I trust you are under no particular obligation to that person?" And whilst we live, will keep so. no Bath-insects-no May-flies, no June-bugs." ""Tisn't the Bath season for 'em," put in the apothecary. "They 're all in London at this time."then""All's one for that. I tell you what-here, Dorothy, another bottle of wine-I tell you what, Master Crossbone, as you say, we'll talk the matter over philosophically, I think that's it; and therefore, no more words about Bath. Come, come, can there be a finer air than this?" cried the husband, rubbing his hands, and trying to laugh. 66 Obligation," " cried Snipeton; as though the thought implied an insult. Why do you ask?" Nothing but for your wife's health. The fact is, Mrs. Wilton always seems melancholy, heavy; with something on her mind. Now, my dear sir, it is a truth in moral philosophy not sufficiently well known and attended to, that dumps are catching." And Crossbone looked the proud discoverer of the subtlety. "Indeed-are they? Perhaps they may be. Well, there's a wench coming up from Kentsomewhere near Dovesnest. I've been coaxed to consent to it. She may make a sort of merrier companion." "She may," said Crossbone; "but what you want is an honest, sharp fellow-for honesty without sharpness in this world is like a sword without edge or point; very well for show, but of no real use to the owner. "Then, sir, the waters had n't been analyzed. Since then they've been found out; only fit for cattle, sir, and the lower orders. Never known now to agree with a person of gentility of stomach —that is, of true delicacy. And for the air, it's very good, certainly, just for the common purposes of life; but as I say, it's not the quality, it's the change that's the thing. There's cases, sir, in which I'd send patients, ay, from Montpellier to the neighborhood of Fleet-ditch. The fact is, sir, "Now, I have the very man who'll suit you. there can't be at times a better change than from The miracle of a groom. Honest as a dog, and the best to the worst. The lungs, sir, get tired-sharp as a porcupine." heartily sick of good air if it's always the same; just as the stomach would get tired of the very best mutton, had it nothing but mutton every day." Snipeton was silent; pondering a refutation of this false philosophy. Still he tugged at his brain for a happy rejoinder. He felt he was certain of it-that it would come when the apothecary had gone away, but unhappily he wanted it for present use. He felt himself like a rich man with all his cash locked up. Now wit, like money, bears an extra value when rung down immediately it is wanted; men pay severely who want credit. Thus, though Snipeton knew he had somewhere in that very strong box his skull, a whole bank of arguments, yet because he could not at the moment draw one, Crossbone-the way of the world -believed there were absolutely no effects. Snipeton, however, got over a difficulty as thousands before him-and thousands yet unborn will jump an obstacle; he asked his opponent to take another glass of wine. If Bacchus often lead men into quagmires deep as his vats, let us yet do him this justice, he sometimes leads them out. "I believe you said something about horse exercise, Crossbone? Now with a horse-you don't drink"-a hospitable slander this on the apothecary" with a horse there's change of air at will, eh?" "To be sure there is. And then there's Highgate and Finchley, and—well, that might do, perhaps," said Crossbone. "And in the evenings"-and Snipeton brightened at the prospect-" we could ride together." "Death. sir-certain death"-and Crossbone "Go on," cried Snipeton, bowing to the apothecary's apothegm. 66 Humph!" cried Snipeton, marvelling at the human wonder. "Your servant, Mr. Crossbone"-said Dorothy Vale, opening the door-" has called as you desired." "Tell him to come in," cried Crossbone: who then said to Snipeton-"At least you can see the fellow." CHAPTER XXVIII. It may be remembered that Snipeton and St. Giles had met before. And certainly St. Giles had not forgotten the event; his somewhat anxious look declared his recollection of the scene at Dovesnest, in which he played the part of rogue and vagabond according to the statute; but as Snipeton had no corresponding interest in the circumstance, he had wholly forgotten the person of the outcast in the candidate for service. But in truth, St. Giles was not the same man. At Dovesnest he was in rags; fear and want had sharpened his face, withering, debasing him. And now, he breathed new courage with every hour's freedom.-He was comfortably, trimly clad; and his pocket-too oft the barometer of the soul -was not quite at zero. Hence, in few moments, he looked with placid respect at Snipeton, who stared all about his face, as a picture-dealer stares at an alleged old master; with a look that in its cunning, would even seem to hope a counterfeit. Was St. Giles really the honest fellow that he appeared; was there in truth the original mark of the original artist upon him; or was he a fraudful imitation especially made to gull a trusting gentleman?-Was there really no flaw in that honest 114 THE HISTORY OF ST. GILES AND ST. JAMES. seeming face?-And Snipeton as he looked half-they know themselves. is "How do you know, if you never counted it ?"" But all he knows wished that all men-or all servants at least-nothing to his honesty. I've trusted him with unwere fashioned like earthen vessels; that, properly told gold, and he has never laid his finger upon filliped, they should perforce reveal a damnifying it." fracture. Certainly, such sort of human pottery, expressly made for families, would be an exceed- asked Snipeton. "That is" said Crossbone, a little pulled up And-the ing comfort to all housekeepers. Snipeton thought this; to his own disappointment thought it; for" that is, you know what I mean. there being no such test of moral soundness, he thought 's been working in me, though I've talked 1 could only choose the domestic, two-legged vessel of other matters-I do think that a horse, with the Alas! why was there quick and frequent change of air a horse can give, before him by its looks. may do everything for Mrs. Snipeton; for, as no instant means of trying the music of its ring! “That will do ; you can wait," said Crossbone have said before-she's young, very young; and youth takes much killing. And therefore, you "11 to St. Giles, who thereupon left the room. "And what can you say for this fellow? Do make yourself easy; come, you'll promise me you know all about him-who begot him-where that?" he comes from?" asked Snipeton. "I will," said Snipeton, a little softened. You give me new heart. Come, another glass." "Not another drop. Pen and ink, if you please. I must write a little prescription for a little nothing for your good lady; not that she wants medicine, said Crossbone. Crossbone was a man of quick parts: so quick," that few knew better than he, the proper time for a complete lie. We say a complete lie; not a careless, fragmentary flam, with no genius in it; but a well-built, architectural lie, buttressed about by circumstance. Therefore, no sooner was the question put to him than, without let or hesitation, he poured forth the following narrative. Wonderful man! falsehood flowed from him like a fountain. "Then why poison her with it?" asked Snipeton with some energy. "She would n't be satisfied without it. Therefore, just a little colored negative; nothing more.' Pen and ink were ordered, brought; and Crossbone strove to write as innocently as his art allowed him. "There must be an apothecary at Hampstead, and I'll send the man with it ;" and Crossbone folded the prescription, and rose. "And when shall we see you again?" asked "Why, in two or three days. all the good I can at present. horse?" "The young man who has just quitted us is of humble but honest origin. His parents were villagers, and rented a little garden-ground whereon they raised much of their lowly but healthy fare. Far, far indeed was the profligacy of London from that abode of rustic innocence. His playmates-Snipeton. I mean the young man's-were the lambkins that he watched, for at an early age he was sent out to tend sheep his books the flowers at his feet, the clouds above his head. Not but what he reads remarkably well for his condition, and writes a good stout servant's hand. He was seven years old-no, I'm wrong, eight, eight years-when he lost his father, who, good creature, fell a victim to his humanity. A sad matter that. He was killed by a windmill.” "I thought you said 't was his humanity," observed Snipeton. "A "And a windmill," averred Crossbone. neighbor's child was gathering buttercups and daisies, and had strayed beneath the mill's revolving sails. The young man's father, obeying the impulse of his benevolent heart, rushed forward to save the little innocent. His humanity, not measuring distance, carried him too near the sails; he was struck to the earth with a compound fracture of the skull, and died." "This you know?" muttered Snipeton, looking ton. "Why, no; not exactly credit; but you must "Bless you! he knows more about horses than "I will." "And the man?". But I have done "I'll think of him.-Tell me, does he know anybody in London ?" "Any calf you like, brought to Smithfield, knows more of the ways-more of the people of town. He's a regular bit of country turf. Green and fresh. Else do you think I'd recommend him!" asked Crossbone very earnestly. "I almost think-I mean I'm pretty sure-that is, I will try him," said Snipeton. "Then between ourselves, I've recommended you a treasure. And-stop; I was about to go, forgetting the most important thing. You heard me say that dumps were catching? I hope you 've thought of that. Now, that Mrs. Wilton-the housekeeper-she'd ruin any young woman. Bless you! She 's hypochondria in petticoats." "Humph! I don't know; I prefer a serious woman for her calling. Perhaps a little over melancholy to be sure, nevertheless"After all, she may "Well, I'll say no more. There may be a only seem melancholy to us. great deal of fun in her, for all we know. Some people remind us of mourning coaches at a funeral : the outside 's dull and solemn enough; and so, folks never think of the jokes that 's flying inside of 'em. As a professional man I know this, Mr. Snipeton; and therefore I hate your very gravelooking people. If they really are what they look, they 're bad; if they arn't they're worse. And in a word-I might say more if I chose, but I won't-in a word, I don't think that Mrs. Snipeton will ever get any good from your housekeeper. Good bye, God bless you;-the man shall bring the medicine." So saying, and looking deepest mystery, Crossbone departed. The apothecary had achieved more than he had hoped. It was very true, thought Snipeton, the wo- | puzzled whether his coach panels should be a 115 man was cold-melancholy. Again, she had never bright blue, a flame-colored yellow, or a rich mullooked upon him with pleasant looks. Her respect berry. Still the clouds changed and shifted, and seemed wrung from her: it was not free-natural. still with the color of his carriage at his heart, he And yet her eye watched his wife with unceasing looked upon them as no other than a celestial patregard. Every moment-when least wanted, too-tern-book, rolled out to help him in his choice. she was hovering near her. How was it, he had The wide west was streaked and barred with gold; never seen this before? It was plain the woman and staring at it, Crossbone was determined that had some false influence; exercised some power lace-three-inch lace-should blaze upon his livthat estranged his wife from him. Let us leave Snipeton for a brief time struggling and weltering in this sea of doubt; now trying to touch certain ground, and now carried away again. Let us leave him, and follow the apothecary. He had had just wine enough; which circumstance was to him the most potent reason for having more. He had put up at the Flask at Hampstead; and to that hostlery he strode, St. Giles silently following him. "My man," said Crossbone," who was your father-where were you born-what have you been doing and where do you come from? An answer if you please to each of these questions." St. Giles, plucking up courage, simply replied -"I am his lordship's servant; and have his orders to follow you.' on, his heart throbbing to the rumbling of his eries. And rapt in this sweet dream, he walked coach-wheels. That music was so sweet, so deep, absorbing, that accompanying his footsteps, he was within a few paces of the Flask ere he saw a crowd gathered about the door, and heard the words "he 's killed." immediately quickened, and hurrying into the middle of the crowd, he saw the body of a man, apHis professional zeal was people crowded around, and by their very anxiety parently lifeless, carried towards the inn. The impeded the progress of the bearers towards the door. "Stand aside, folks-stand aside," cried man. Keep his head up, fellow." Crossbone, "I'm a physician; that is, a medical 66 "Get out o' the way," exclaimed a stranger, and the benevolent new-comer thrust aside the 'you don't know how to carry a fellow-cretur," rustic who was, awkwardly enough, supporting the shoulders of the wounded man, and with admirable zeal, and great apparent tenderness, relieved him of the charge. soul!" he cried, much affected, "I do wonder if he's a wife and family?" Poor soul-poor As he "A bed-room; immediately-a bed-room," exclaimed Crossbone; and his sudden patient was ascended, a horse bathed in foam, and every muscle carried up-stairs, Crossbone following. quivering, was led to the door. his boy to fly his kite a purpose to kill people, "It's my belief that that Claypole sends out that he may bury 'em. That's the third horse he's frit this week; the little varmint! And this looks like death any how." Thus delivered himself, a plain-spoken native of Hampstead. "There's not the slightest doubt, his lordship's servant, that you 're a convenient rascal of all work, and quite up to the business we shall put you on." Let not the reader imagine that these words were uttered by Crossbone: by no means: not a syllable of them. But the thought-the ethereal essence of words-had touched the brain of the apothecary, and his whole frame tingled with the awakened music. scoundrel, he was sure of it, and he was happy. He had found a Very good, my man; very good, I understand you. As you say, you are his lordship's servant, and have his lordship's orders to take my directions. Very well. You will please to take your father and mother from my hands: understand for once that they were honest, respectable people; and be grateful for the parents I've given you. Your father, good man! was killed by a windmill; and your mother still lives in the country, and regularly takes three fourths of your wages. And you are not to forget that you have a great love for that mother. And now, take this prescription to the apothecary's; tell him to make it up, and send to Mr. Snipeton's. After which, you'll come to me at the Flask. Go." St. Giles, with perplexed looks, obeyed Crossbone, and went upon his errand. "I've given the vagabond a father and mother to be proud of it's quite clear, much better than were really bestowed upon him; and he hasn't a word of thanks to say upon the matter. Let a gentleman lie as he will for the lower orders, they 're seldom grateful. Nevertheless, let us have the virtue that he wants. Were he a piece of deny that," said one of the mob; who, it is prob"Well, mate, you do speak a truth; nobody can pig-headed honesty, he would n't suit our work. able, scarcely dreamt that the sometime moralist No: Providence has been very good in sending us and truth were so very rarely on speaking terms. a rascal." With these mute thoughts, this final And this the reader will, doubtless, admit, when thanksgiving, did Crossbone step onward to the we inform him that the man who so humanely, so Flask. He would there further ponder on the plan affectionately lent his aid to the thrown horseman, that, throwing Snipeton's young wife into the arms helping to bear him with all tenderness up-stairs, of a young nobleman-and, in common justice, so old and vulgar a man had no claim to such refine- rather, as he afterwards revealed, his pleasure to was Mr. Thomas Blast. It was his business, or ment and beauty; she must have been originally be at Hampstead-his solemn pleasure. At this intended for high life, and therefore cruelly misap-moment, St. Giles, on his return from the apotheplied-would throw him, Crossbone, the prime cary's, came to the inn-door. Ere he was well conspirator, into the very highest practice. He aware of the greeting, his hand was grasped by would keep a carriage! As he looked at the glo- Blast-"Well, how do you do? Who'd have rious clouds, colored by the setting sun, he felt thought to see you here?" Who, in sooth, but shell;" and saying this, the speaker significantly "You may say death. Cracked like a eggpointed to his own skull. ing to get blood: it's my opinion he might as "The doctor's a trywell try a tomb-stone. Well, this is a world, is n't it? I often thanks my luck I can't afford a horse; for who's safe a-horseback? A man kisses his wife and his babbies, if he has 'em, when he mounts his saddle of a mornin'-and his wife gets him lamb and sparrow-grass, or something nice for supper-'xpecting him home. She listens for his horse's feet, and he's brought to his door in a shell." Blast himself-seeing that he had dogged his prey from St. James'-square? "Ha! my good friend," cried Blast, very much moved, " you don't know the trouble I've had since we met. But you must see it in my looks. Tell me, aint I twenty years older?" "I don't see it," muttered St. Giles; though, assuredly, such a sight would have carried its pleasure to the runaway transport. "Ha! you won't see it; that's so like a friend. But don't let us stand in the street; come in and have a pot; for I've somethin' to say that'll set your art a bleeding." Hoping, praying, that Crossbone might not observe him-and feeling dwarfed, powerless, under the will of Blust-St. Giles turned into a side-room with his early teacher and destroyer. 66 "I don't feel as if I could do anything much in the way of drink," said Blast, to the waiter following, and so, a little brandy-and-water. Well, you wonder to see me at Hampstead, I dare say? You can't guess what brings me here?" "No," said St. Giles. "How should I?" "I'm a altered man. I came here all this way for nothin' else but to see the sun a settin'. Your health;" and Blast, as he said, did nothing in the way of drink: for he gulped his brandy-and-water. To see the sun a setting!" cried St. Giles; we fear, too, a little incredulously. "Ha! you 're young, and likes to see him a gettin' up; it's natrul; but when you're my time o' life, and have stood the wear and tear o' the world as I have, you'll rather look at the sun when he sets, then. And, do you know why? You don't? I'll tell you. Acause, when he sets, he reminds you of where you 're agoing. I never thought I should ha' been pulled up in the way I have been. But trouble's done it. My only comfort's now to look at the settin' sun-and he sets nowhere so stylishly as here at Hampstead." Humph! And so you 've had trouble?" said St. Giles, coldly. 66 "Don't talk in that chilly way, as if your words was hailstones. I feel as if I could fall on your neck, and cry like a 'oman. Don't freeze me in that manner. I said trouble. Loss o' property, and death." and so you'll know when you 've had my trouble. Your health agin." “And you have had a loss of property besides?'' asked St. Giles. "Look here," cried Blast, taking off his hat and rumpling up his hair: "there's a change! Once as black as a crow; and now-oh, my dear friend"—St. Giles shrunk at the appeal as at a presented pistol-"if you want to put silver on a man's head, you've only to take all the gold out of his pocket. Had a loss! You may say a loss. I tell you what it is: it's no use for a man to think of being honest in this world: it is n't. I've tried, and I give it up." "That's a pity," said St. Giles: knowing not what to say-knowing not how to shake off his tormentor. "Why, it is; for a man does n't often make his mind up to it. Well, I've had my faults, I know; who has n't? Still, I did think to reform when I got that lump of money; and more, I did think to make a man of you. I'd chalked out the prettiest, innocentest life for both on us. I'll make a sojer of Jingo, I thought; yes, I'll buy him some colors for the army, and make him a gen'lman at once. And then I thought we would so enjoy ourselves! We'd ha' gone and been one all among the lower orders. In summer time we'd ha' played at knock 'ems down with 'em, jest to show we was all made o' the same stuff; and in winter we would n't ha' turned up our noses at hot-cockles, or blind-man's buff, or nothin' of the sort; but ha' been as free and comfortable with the swinish multitude (for I did begin to think 'em that when I got the money) as if they'd got gold rings in their noses, and like the pig-faced lady, eat out of a silver trough. I thought you 'd be a stick to my old age. But what's the use o' thinking on it? As my schoolmaster used to sayHim as sets his heart on the things of this lifeI've forgot the rest: but it's all of a piece.' "And how did you get this money ?" asked St. Giles, with very well-acted innocence. "How did I get the money? How should I get it? By the sweat of my brow." And so far, the reader who remembers the labor of Blast in his theft of the gold-box, may acquit him of an untruth. "And having got such a heap of gold," rejoined St. Giles, " pray tell me how did you lose it?" "Death!" cried St. Giles. Little Jingo. That apple o' both my eyes; that tulup of a child. Well, he was too clever to live long. I always thought it. Much too for'ard for his age. He's gone. And now he's gone, Now Blast had, and never suspected it, a sense I do feel that I was his father." St. Giles stifled of humor: he could really enjoy a joke when least a rising groan. “But—it's my only comfort-palatable to most men; namely, when made he's better looked arter now than with me." against themselves. Nevertheless, with people "No doubt," said St. Giles with a quickness who have only a proper pride of such philosophy, that made Blast stare. "I mean, if he is where you hope he is." "I should like to pay him some respect. I don't want to do much but-I know it's a weakness; still a man without a weakness has no right to live among men; he's too good for this sinful world. As I was saying, I know it's a weakness still, I should like to wear a little bit o' black-if it was only a rag, so it was black. You could n't lend me nothing, could you? Only a coat would be something to begin with." St. Giles pleaded in excuse his very limited wardrobe; and Blast was suddenly satisfied. "Well, he's gone; and if I was to go as black as a nigger, he would n't rest the better for 't. Besides, the settin' sun tells me we shan't be long apart. Nothing like sunsets to pull a man up; like a he had his share of sensitiveness, to be called up at a reasonable crisis. Hence, when St. Giles pressed him to explain his loss, the jest became a hurt. Good nature may endure a tickling with a feather, but resents a scratch from a tenpenny nail. "My dear young friend," said Blast, "don't do that; pray don't. When you 're as old as me, and find the world a slippin' from under you hill o' sand, you'll not laugh at the losses o' gray hairs," and again Blast drew his fingers through his locks meekly, mournfully. "How did I lose it? No: you warn't at Liquorish, you warn't? No; you don't know? Well, I hope I'm not much worse than my neighbors; and I don't like wishing bad wishes, it is sich old woman's work; it's only barking the louder for wanting teeth. But this I will wish; if a clergyman o' the 'Stab know in this world what you may want. I dare 66 Why, hope's very well; and then it's so very cheap. But there's no doubt he's gone; and as he's gone, what, I should like to know"and Blast threw the purse airily up and down— what was the use of this to him?" "Good God! You have n't stole it?" exclaimed St. Giles, leaping to his feet. lished Church is ever to choke himself with a fish- "What place?" asked St. Giles. "I'm in no place, certain, as yet." "There, then, we won't say nothin' about it. Only this. When you 're butler-if I'm spared in this wicked world so long-you won't refuse an old friend, Jingo's friend, Jingo's mother's friend" -St. Giles turned sick at his mother's name, so spoken-" you won't refuse him a bottle o' the best in the pantry? You won't, will you? eh ?" 66 "No," ," stammered St. Giles. "Why should I? Certainly not, when I'm butler." “And till then, old fellow,”—and Blast bent forward in his chair, and touched St. Giles' knee with his finger-"lend us a guinea." er. St. Giles recoiled from the request; the more so, as it was seconded by contact with the petitionHe made no answer; but his face looked blank as blank paper: not a mark was in it to serve as hieroglyph for a farthing. Blast could read faces better than books. "You won't then? Not so much as a guinea to the friend of Jingo's mother?" St. Giles writhed again at the words. "Well, as it's like the world, why should quarrel? Now jest see the difference. See the money I'd ha' given you, if misfortin had n't stept in. He's a fine fellow,' I kept continually saying to myself; 'I don't know how it is, I like him, and he shall have half. Not a mite less than half.' And now, you won't lend me-for mind I don't ax it as a gift-you won't lend me a guinea." "I can't," said St. Giles. "I am poor myself: very poor. "Well, as I said afore, we won't quarrel. And so, you shall have a guinea of me. Saying this, Blast with a cautious look towards the door, drew a long leathern purse from his pocket. St. Giles suddenly felt as though a party to the robbery that he knew it-Blast must somewhere have perpetrated. Not a farthing," said St. Giles, as Blast dipped his finger and thumb in the purse. "Not a farthing." "Don't say that; don't be proud, for you don't "Hush!" cried Blast," don't make sich a noise as that with a dead body in the house. The worst o' folks treat the dead with respect. Else people who 're never thought of at all when in the world, would n't be gone into black for when they go out of it. I'd no thought of the matter, when I run to help the poor cretur: but somehow, going up stairs, one of his coat pockets did knock at my knuckles so, that I don't know how it was, when I'd laid him comfortable on the bed, and was coming down agin, I found this sort o' thing in my pocket. Poor fellow! he'll never miss it. Well, you won't have a guinea then?" "I'd starve first," exclaimed St. Giles. "My good lad, it is n't for me to try to put my self over your head-but this I must say; when you 've seen the world as I have, you'll know better." At this moment, the waiter entered the room. "How is the poor gentleman up stairs?" asked St. Giles. "Is there no hope?'" "Lor bless you, yes! They 've bled him and made him quite comfortable. He's ordered some rump-steaks and onions, and says he'll make a night of it." Thus spoke the waiter. "Do you hear that?" asked St. Giles of Blast. "Sorry to hear it: sorry to think that any man arter sich an escape, should think o' nothing better than supper. My man, what 's to pay?" St. Giles unbuttoned his pocket. "No; not a farden; tell you, I won't hear of it. Not a farden; bring the change out o' that," and Blast laid down a dollar; and the waiter departed on his errand. "I tell you, I don't want you to treat me; and I won't have it," said St. Giles. 66 My good young man, a proper pride's a proper thing; and I don't like to see nobody without it. But pride atween friends I hate. So good bye, for the present. I'll take my change at the bar." And Mr. Blast was about to hurry himself from the room. "Stay," said St. Giles; "should I wish to see you, where are you to be found?" "Some "Well, I don't know," said Blast. times in one place-sometimes in another. But one thing, my dear lad, is quite sure." Here Blast put both his hands on St. Giles' shoulders and looked in his face with smiling malignity"one thing is quite sure: if you don't know how to find me, shall always know where to come upon you. Don't be afeard of that, young man." And with this, Blast left the room, whilst St. Giles sank in his chair, weary and sick at heart. He was in the villain's power, and seemed to exist only by his sufferance. |