"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. " "You won't complain of the delay when I tell you what I've done," answered Jack. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. Fire; she was full of it. But I’m generously ignorant of gems. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. "The plot's out!" cried Jack. ‘Bon. Sheppard. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same.
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