He whispered in her ear. "May come!—it will come!—it shall come!" cried the carpenter, shaking his hand menacingly at him. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. It was in the quiet streets and squares toward Oxford Street that it first came into her head disagreeably that she herself was being followed. Wrap yourself in my cloak, and keep it. And Blueskin, who, for a moment, had looked round distrustfully, concluding it was a feint, now laughed louder than ever. Naturally it all came out then.
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