"Let us in," said the Master, rapping his truncheon authoritatively against the boards, "or we'll force an entrance. . It is of no use. " "I wish I could, Joan," returned the carpenter, sadly. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine. Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. A bad man, in fact. Hey. Sheppard. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind. Kneebone,—pray go!" implored Winifred. .
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