ToC About an hour after the occurrences at Newgate, the door of the small backparlour already described at Dollis Hill was opened by Winifred, who, gliding noiselessly across the room, approached a couch, on which was extended a sleeping female, and, gazing anxiously at her pale careworn countenance, murmured,—"Heaven be praised! she still slumbers—slumbers peacefully. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. It's mighty lonesome down there for a man bred to cities. But no more of that. As sure as you're sitting there, Mr. Here, turnkey.
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