and the place broke suddenly into light. A dirty narrow staircase on one side; facing it, a sort of lobby, in which an open door showed a long, sanded parlor, like that in public-houses— several tables, benches, the walls whitewashed, but adorned with sundry ingenious designs made by charcoal or the smoked ends of clay-pipes. A strong smell of stale tobacco and of gin and rum. Another gaslight, swinging from the centre of the ceiling, sprang into light as Cutts touched the tap-cock,
"Wait here," said the guide. " I will go and get you some supper."
"And some brandy," said Jasper.
"Of course."
The bravo threw himself at length on one of the tables, and, closing his eyes, moaned. His vast strength had become acquainted with physical pain. In its stout knots and fibres, aches and sharp twinges, the dragon-teeth of which had been sown years ago in revels or brawls, which then seemed to bring but innocuous joy and easy triumph, now began to gnaw and grind. But when Cutts reappeared with coarse viands and the brandy- bottle, Jasper shook off the sense of pain, as does a wounded wild beast that can still devour; and after regaling fast and ravenously, he emptied half the bottle at a draught, and felt himself restored and fresh.
"Shall you fling yourself among the swell fellows who hold their club here, General?" asked Cutts; " 'tis a bad trade, every year it gets worse. Or have you not some higher game in your eye?"
"I have higher game in my eye. One bird I marked down this very night. But that may be slow work, and uncertain. I have in this pocket-book a bank to draw upon meanwhile."
"How?—forged French billets de banque—dangerous."
"Pooh! better than that; letters which prove theft against a respectable rich man."
"Ah, you expect hush-money?"
"Exactly so. I have good friends in London."
"Among them, I suppose, that affectionate ' adopted mother ' who would have kept you in such order."
"Thousand thunders! I hope not. I am not a superstitious man, but I fear that woman as if she were a witch, and I believe she is one. You remember black Jean, whom we called Sans culotte. He would have filled a church-yard with his own brats for a five-franc piece; but he would not have crossed a churchyard alone at night for a thousand Naps. Well, that woman to me is what a church-yard was to black Jean. No; if she is
