She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. 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. ’ Relief flooded Melusine. ‘What, and miss getting myself murdered?’ ‘She said she wouldn’t murder you. "Only sprained it a little, that's all," answered Thames; "the pain will go off presently. How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours.
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