" "It shall be, Sir," replied Ireton, bowing. Nor Jacques. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. “Dear friend,” she said, “do not magnify me into a physiological problem. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault.
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