Little did the audience know that two vampires were in their midst. The fellow swore lustily, in a voice which Jack instantly recognised as that of Quilt Arnold, and vainly attempted to rise and draw his sword. In this way he crossed one or two public gardens and a bowling-green,—the neighbourhood of Clerkenwell then abounded in such places of amusement,—passed the noted Ducking Pond, where Black Mary had been frequently immersed; and, striking off to the left across the fields, arrived in a few minutes at his destination. "No such thing," rejoined the jailer; "he's coming on business. Turning now, and running down the terrace. We'll celebrate that check, and let the rest of the world go hang.
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