ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. “A ballot-box, you know,” he said, “is very largely just a box. Wood's," said the latter, "since I find him at his own gate. There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. "Well," growled Blueskin, "you've had my offer. And now take away those cards, and never let me see them again. Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. 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. And, though the villain can't see his orders executed, I've no doubt some one else will. I doubt I hold any interest for him anymore.
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