‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. Elegant, a little scornful, she leaned slightly against the back of a chair and looked him steadily in the eyes. “No,” she said at last; “I’m a human being—not a timid female. The moment I entered the room, and found you a prisoner in the hands of Jonathan Wild, I guessed how matters stood, and acted accordingly. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.
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