After the first violent outbreak of grief had in some degree subsided, Thames addressed him. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. "I don't exactly know the rights of that affair," rejoined Griffin, with some curiosity. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. 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. But it looked as if the boy was not going to be of much use.
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