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He lit a cigarette and loitered about. Guided by the glare of the forge, which threw a stream of ruddy light across the road, Jack soon found the place of which he was in search. " "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. “Your name and address were upon an envelope found in the pocket of an Englishman who was brought here late last night suffering from serious injuries,” he said in a dry official tone. I did all for the best, I'm sure. " "You may go, and welcome, Madam!" rejoined Kneebone, spitefully.
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