A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast. Kneebone. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. His age was not far from fifty. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. ‘Or do I arrest you and have these soldiers march you off to gaol?’ A sweep of his arm indicated the array of military strength on the benches, every eye of which was trained on the little scene being enacted before them. Where the robber may cheer His spirit with beer, And drown in a sea of good liquor all fear! For nothing the transit to Tyburn beguiles So well as a draught from the Bowl of Saint Giles! III.
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