Too close, he reasoned, for safety. 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. Lose no time. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. Five minutes ago, his butler had entered the green saloon, an austere apartment, with dark forest-green wallpaper flocked with a swirling design, and heavy mahogany furniture. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way. “Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. She moved her elbow nearer to him and spoke in a still lower tone. 59 He was not present during the night the next morning, or the next, or the next. Fifty sent home.
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