"No, Sir Rowland," replied the attendant, "as you proposed to ride to Saint Albans to-night, I thought you might choose to see him yourself. She thought me— filthy. Two packets were committed to your charge, which you undertook to deliver,—one to another priest, Sir Rowland's chaplain, at Manchester, the other to Mr. Others who have done, have found you false. I do not wish that the soldiers there will see it shine. You must say farewell to her, for I cannot. " "I know not how to act," exclaimed Jack, almost driven to desperation. " "You have extradition papers?" "What sort of a detective do you think I am?" countered O'Higgins. You are too credulous. He won’t have menservants inside the house, and his collection of carriages is only fit for a museum—where most of his friends ought to be, by-the-bye.
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