Perhaps she might never come back to that breakfast-room again. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it. Good night. Jack, who had been lingering near the group, now walked on. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess.
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