He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. In another minute, the tramp of horses' feet told that the perpetrators of the outrage had effected their escape. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. Arrived beneath an aperture in the broken roof, he was preparing to pass through it, when he observed a little heap of tiles upon the floor, which appeared to have been recently dislodged.
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