She felt the thrill race through her body. " "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. Presently she became aware of footsteps hurrying after her, and glanced back to find Miss Klegg, a little out of breath, in pursuit. She was not afraid exactly, but there was that about her loneliness to-night she distrusted. ‘Something in that, missie. He told some of the particulars.
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