"What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. “But that’s quite different,” replied Anna. " "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. But ship that girl east as soon as you can. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. . At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr. F.
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