Beyond was a narrow bridge, crossing a circular building, at the bottom of which lay a deep well. “No, no,” she cried. She could not move. Immediately a feathered hat emerged, under which a familiar countenance was visible. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Supper was quickly served; the oldest bottle of wine was brought from the cellar; the strongest barrel of ale was tapped; but not one of the party could eat or drink—their hearts were too full. She heard the bamboo curtain rattle slightly.
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