"Now, let's see who'll dare to take him down," she cried. The likelihood is that I shan’t see the wench again. Pah!’ She flounced about and, crossing to the bed, plonked down on it, pointedly averting her face and resting the large pistol in her lap. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. At length, he fell down on the road, fully expecting each moment would prove his last. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. "Devilish strange!" thought he, chuckling to himself; "queer business! Capital trick of the cull in the cloak to make another person's brat stand the brunt for his own—capital! ha! ha! Won't do, though.
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