Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. “In any case, I decline to see you alone. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. Just sit down on that stool again and let’s talk of this in cold blood. Retracing his steps, he arrived, without further accident, at the eastern platform of the starling. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous.
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