"I am not to be deceived. ” “But how?” He was, she thought, a little too insistent. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. Happy Birthday, then. " "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. He stood still, almost breathless. You will find the proof in McClintock's safe. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. CHAPTER XX.
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