Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. The door closed upon her, and he moved reluctantly away. She recognized him as the man who had blundered into the wrong room. “He will probably make a statement to-night. No one in the world is beyond the shaft of scandal— we all catch it terribly sometimes.
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