"Not a moment is to be lost," cried Jack: "follow me. Gerald’s judgement was borne out a moment later. And Lady Trafford having been carried down stairs, and placed within it, the postboy drove off, at a rapid pace for Barnet. 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. He had heard this talk before. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. ‘Parbleu,’ came indignantly from the lady.
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