"And so shall I," replied Edgeworth Bess. "Ah! Owen Wood, is it you?" cried David in astonishment. His next occupation was to take out his pistols, examine the priming, and rub the flints. Upon the pavement near the court lay the porter, who had been prostrated by a blow from the butt-end of a pistol. His throat filled; he wanted to weep. “I want to find an address. Master Thames Ditton, I'll do your biddin'; and you, Misther Quilt Arnold, may do your worst, I defy you. Good-bye, Anna!” Annabel sprang up.
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