“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. What the devil is the matter, Dunster?” “I beg your pardon, sir,” the man answered, “there is a lady here to see you. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. “I suppose, Vee, you don’t see much of those Widgetts now?” “I go in and talk to Constance sometimes. 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.
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