There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. Earles,” she exclaimed. Glancing towards him she saw that a shadow had fallen upon his face. “Happened! Oh, many things,” she declared indolently. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. Another coach was then procured, in which the prisoner was placed. “Kick aht at ‘em!” though, indeed, she went now with Christian meekness, resenting only the thrusting policemen’s hands. Great sport, eh? To haul them back from the ragged edge.
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