David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. He was asleep. "My horse is at the door, saddled, with pistols in the holsters,—mount him and fly. She possessed what he affected to despise, but secretly worshipped—the innate charm of breeding. A few minutes later she left the house on foot, and taking a hansom at the corner of the Square, drove to Anna’s flat. "Ah! what is that?" he cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. A pretty piece. "Caught!" shouted the head-turnkey. “Your friend, “DAVID COURTLAW.
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