CHAPTER I. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run. ‘Poor things. “I’m six hundred and forty-eight, John, but guess how old I look? Fifteen. Yes, I can readily believe it. “I am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. “I must repeat,” Sir John said, “that I much regret disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied. "A little, Sir," replied the executioner, with a grim smile. She heard him come in; the light burned on.
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