Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She patted John's head with her palm, its surface appealingly fuzzy.
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