His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. By many a highwayman many a draught Of nutty-brown ale at Saint Giles's was quaft, Until the old lazar-house chanced to fall down, And the broad-bottom'd bowl was removed to the Crown. ” “Perhaps,” he said, “you had better let me have your key, and I will go up and explore. ” “Why?” asked Hetty. He stopped before her suddenly. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity.
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