“Gods!” cried Ann Veronica, and kept him standing. He pulled down a chair to her left. " "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. There was, it might be said, a double illumination. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. ” She breathed an inner sigh of relief. The unfortunate woman was stretched upon the floor, with a bloody knife in her hand. “Can you give me any information as to this affair?” he asked.
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