The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. "A thousand pounds," he observed, gloomily, "is a heavy price to pay for doubtful secrecy, when certain silence might be so cheaply procured. At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. Nothing stronger than water has passed my lips for years.
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