. . " "Unworthy, indeed!" sneered Mrs. ‘Thank you,’ she said, leaning heavily on his arm for a moment. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. A narrow entry, formed by two low walls, communicated with the main thoroughfare; and in this passage, under the cover of a penthouse, stood Wood, with his little burthen, to whom we shall now return. "Do you recollect this key? Do you recollect to whom you gave it, and for what purpose? or shall I refresh your memory?" Wild appeared confounded. Her words, as she said them, seemed to her to mean nothing, and there was so much that struggled for expression. A pair of startled blue eyes looked up into his. "There's Sharples," cried Quilt. A pig, yes, a little. "There, he's as safe as Jack Sheppard in the Condemned Hould," laughed the man. ‘Martha was my wet-nurse? But she is unmarried. "By Heaven!" cried Darrell, "it is the poor fellow whom I placed in such jeopardy a short time ago.
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