The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. " "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. Pshaw!" added he, making an effort to subdue his emotion, "I can't leave you in this way. ‘What now?’ ‘Now,’ she answered flatly, ‘you will please to tell me at once why you have come here.
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