I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. ” He spoke a little nervously. . " "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. I didn’t ought to have sent for him. It was ten feet long, a relic.
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