In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. Traversing Angel Court, and Green Arbour Court,—celebrated as one of Goldsmith's retreats,—he speedily reached Seacoal Lane, and pursuing the same course, which he and Thames had formerly taken, arrived at the yard at the back of Jonathan's habitation. "If I were so, I should not be here," returned Trenchard. What of it?” There was a shout of laughter. ToC Jack was scarcely concealed when the door opened, and the two persons of whom he had caught a glimpse below entered the room. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. "We'll see that, you yelping hounds!" rejoined Jonathan, glaring fiercely at them. “Let us escape,” she said. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. But no more of that.
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