Kneebone, who had drained his glass to the restoration of the house of Stuart, and the downfall of the house of Hanover, more frequently than was consistent with prudence, consented; and the trio set out for Wych Street, where they arrived in the jolliest humour possible. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. “You know of no one likely to have had a grudge against this man?” he asked. He was engaged in detesting Manning and himself in almost equal measure. Accordingly, he stopped the coach, dismounted, and hastened towards the assemblage, which, he was glad to find, consisted chiefly of a posse of watchmen and other guardians of the night. "Auntie?" he cried. Your life, and that of your child, are in my power. "Farewell!" blubbered the executioner's wife, pressing his hand to her lips. All this was exciting and entertaining.
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