" "Most likely," observed Jonathan, with a slight sneer; "the ghost of some highwayman who has just breathed his last in Newgate, no doubt. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. "Do you think I'd take the trouble to announce him? These are persons of consequence, I tell you.
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