This done, Edgeworth Bess, who watched her opportunity, slipped out of the Lodge. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. He pulled rein at the sight of her, saluted, and regarded her with his rather too protuberant eyes. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern.
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