“Dear John,” she whispered. ” He stood looking at the preparations before them with an unusual preoccupation of manner, then roused himself to take her jacket, a little awkwardly, and hand it to the waiter who hung it in the corner of the room. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?" "He does," replied Thames. Strewn across the bed was a multitude of jumbled garments. " "Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!" cried Jack, impatiently. ‘You imbecile.
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