She laughed as the deluge seemed to grow worse with every step. " "And were I in yours," rejoined the woollen-draper, "I should be doubly apprehensive, because he's a professed friend. The Procession to Tyburn. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. The Master listened, with becoming attention, to the narrative, and, at its conclusion, shook his head gravely, applied his thumb to the side of his nose, and, twirling his fingers significantly, winked at his phlegmatic companion. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded.
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