“I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. As he passed out he saw in the hall a quietly dressed man with keen grey eyes, talking to one of the footmen. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. “You did not tell me that you were going out, or I would have offered my escort.
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