Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. "Take her," cried Jonathan; and, flinging the now inanimate body of the poor widow, who had fainted in the struggle, into the arms of Thames, he leapt through the window, and by the time the latter could consign her to Wood, and dart after him, he had disappeared. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. Rank ingratitude, I call it. .
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