"Hark 'ee, Ben," said the old sailor, knocking the ashes from his pipe upon the hob; "you may try, but dash my timbers if you'll ever cross the Thames to-night. First you do not come to see me since three days, and me, I know nothing of what happens with Gosse until this capitaine of yours has come today. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. If he took a fancy to you, he invited you to the house for tea, bitter and yellow and served in little cups without handles. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful.
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