At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. "I've set a trap for him. Jonathan completely baffles and derides the ends of justice. . you walking home?\" 3 She paused, stunned. " "Of course," rejoined Kneebone, a little maliciously, "but that's easily accounted for. ” “Thanks, honey.
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