" "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. Last week. "I'll place it to your account, Sir Rowland," answered the thief-taker, smiling significantly. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. Time enough for Gosse to shut her mouth forever, as he did not hesitate to point out to her.
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