‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. Racing, he reached it perhaps a moment or two later. He had not had time to aim the pistol. . He staggered back a few paces; and, before he could recover himself, Thames tripped up his heels, and, placing the point of the spike at his throat, threatened to stab him if he attempted to stir, or cry out. " "Then, most probably, it was the widow Sheppard," answered Blueskin, sulkily. The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought.
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