"Stay!" cried Wood, "this is a most perplexing business—if you really are privy to the affair——" "We'll talk of it to-morrow, Sir," returned Jackson, cutting him short. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ ‘Consorting with a nun in the gardens. ‘Me, I have a name. By the will of Mr. The inn was a military haunt. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. Here was the corner-stone of a capital story; but he knew that Howard Spurlock would never write it.
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