“I wonder if you give me a thought. I mentioned sixty, I believe, when I was in Paris, but there are expenses, and just now business is bad. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. A vast indifference settled down upon him. " "That's not my game.
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