They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. I can save you, and will. The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. She laughed a little contemptuously. The beachcomber, the lowest in the human scale; and some day he would enter into this estate. But really it is much more than that.
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