He would know her address to-morrow. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. She is the wife now of another man. Soho! boys. I believed that she was my wife, or she would have been safe from me. He had heard everything. Then a third secretarial opening occurred and renewed her hopes again: a position as amanuensis—with which some of the lighter duties of a nurse were combined— to an infirm gentleman of means living at Twickenham, and engaged upon a great literary research to prove that the “Faery Queen” was really a treatise upon molecular chemistry written in a peculiar and picturesquely handled cipher. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that.
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