" "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. She saw, twenty yards down the platform, the shiny hat and broad back and inimitable swagger of Ramage. She would not let her move. Mrs. He halted,—looked fearfully around,—stopped again, and exclaimed aloud, "I don't like the job; and yet it must be done, or Mr. He’ll appoint a meeting place with you and be ready at any time to bring a message to me.
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