And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Come with me to the Condemned Hold directly, and, if I find my fears confirmed, I'll—" He was here interrupted by the sudden entrance of the black, who rushed precipitately into the room, letting fall the heavy bunch of keys in his fright. Courtlaw opened his lips, but remained silent in the face of her imperative gesture. A queer nut. Prudence. "What's the use of wasting a shot?" rejoined Jonathan, savagely.
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