Arrived there, their first object was to seek out Davies, by whom they were conducted to the lady's retreat,—a lone habitation, situated on the outskirts of Saint George's Fields in Southwark. "Ah! traitor!" cried Jack, pulling the trigger of his pistol. Do you know, I am beginning to believe that we only exist nowadays by the tolerance of these millionaire tradesmen. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. I don't care how lonesome it is. Leave the means to me. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. “Dear husband,” she murmured.
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