A tall elegantly dressed woman, followed by a maid, came down the broad staircase. “All right, Dunster,” he said. I freely forgive you. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop. So the talk went on, and presently they were criticising novelists, and certain daring essays of Wilkins got their due share of attention, and then they were discussing the future of the theatre. 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. “I want to inquire,” said Ann Veronica. ” He did not move. ‘Am I right in supposing you to have been a sister to the late Mr Jarvis Remenham?’ ‘Quite right.
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