They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey. ‘Here we go again. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. Go to it. Too late, alas, to stop the disastrous marriage. It always comes out sooner or later.
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