" "Ay, ay," cried the jailers, laughing. Where the stuff came from was always a mystery. “I have spoken too many truths to-night. " "No. His client’s story is safe with him. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. She gasped with pain, but she did not release her grip. “I—I shall be all right directly. Leaning upon a gate he looked down into the valley. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. . ’ ‘I do not tell you why,’ the lady uttered flatly.
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