’ ‘Damn you, I should have beaten you,’ Gerald swore, holding fast to his corner of the little square of linen. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. Mr. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. It was instantly burst open, when the horrible stench that issued from it convinced them that it must be a receptacle for the murdered victims of the thief-taker.
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