Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. "Ah!" exclaimed Jack, starting to his feet. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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