“Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. 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. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters. Wood.
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