Wood chanced to be murdered by Blueskin, the fellow who just left the room, on the very night of his return, as it has thrown the house into such confusion, and so distracted them, that he has had no time as yet for hostile movements. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. Not only that, but he carried himself erect— the slight slouch which had bent his shoulders had altogether disappeared. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. There were no evidences of any struggle, no overturned chairs or disarranged furniture.
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