He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. If we were to wait till a prig was rightfully nabbed, we might tarry till doomsday. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. "And now, farewell, Mr. ’ ‘But what a perfectly famous adventure. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them.
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