She was dressed for the street very much as her own maid was accustomed to dress, and there was a thick veil attached to her hat. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. By the side of her plate was a small key. “Troubles, my friend,” she exclaimed lightly. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None.
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