Pottiswick had mentioned muttering. Spurlock looked up. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her. There was, in fact, only one clear thought in his fevered brain: he had reached the hotel without falling down. What else could one say? I left him to suppose—a registry perhaps. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "I took you for one who wouldn't hesitate to avail himself of any advantage chance might throw in his way," returned the thief-taker, coldly. She glared at him with satisfaction.
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