That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. She had just passed into a little antechamber beyond when she suddenly heard a faint knocking. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. He answered with the greatest assurance, that he knew nothing whatever of the matter—had seen no pocket-book, and no associate to give up. Their doors stood open, and placards with big letters indicated the section assigned to each. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced.
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