Bird,—who was rushing up stairs, alarmed by Mr. "If I thought he lived——" observed Wood. 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. Quilt, meanwhile, came down, examined the door, and finding it unfastened, locked it with a bitter imprecation on his brother-janizary's carelessness. Wood, "it may be poisoned. Somebody tricked you back yonder—baited you for spite. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. An old woman took her in. “Well, what is it?” “Montague Hill is recovering consciousness,” he said.
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