Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. The word of a Chinaman; he had given it, so he must abide. You're in luck to-night, widow. She turned into the study, sat down at the table and fingered the pencils, curiously stirred. "Goodness only knows what he's reserved for," rejoined the widow in a desponding tone; "but if Mynheer Van Galgebrok, whom I met last night at the Cross Shovels, spoke the truth, little Jack will never die in his bed. Remain at the door, Nab," he added, loitering for a moment behind the others, "and let no one in, or out. V.
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