The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. 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. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. He’s a catch, Lucy. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. It was my destiny to have her. I am gambling on his intuition.
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