\" Diane chirped once again, ever-musical. It was a letter. There MULSACK and SWIFTNECK, both prigs from their birth, OLD MOB and TOM COX took their last draught on earth: There RANDAL, and SHORTER, and WHITNEY pulled up, And jolly JACK JOYCE drank his finishing cup! For a can of ale calms, A highwayman's qualms, And makes him sing blithely his dolorous psalms And nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! "Singing's dry work," observed the stranger, pausing to take a pull at the bottle. "Don't disturb yourself," said his follower, motioning him to keep still; "it's all right. After that time, I shall place my setters on your heels. "Gentlemen, a little further off, if you please. But it's confounded inconvenient. Winifred screamed. “And how did you find us here?” “I called at Montague Street a few minutes after you had left. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air.
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