In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. “You don’t want to go?” “No. ” “And why shouldn’t you?” “I felt that sort of thing couldn’t go on. The key is in my trousers. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. "There!" cried Mrs.
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