I hear the sound of his horse's feet in the yard. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. His first reaction had been explosive as the hurts of the past rose up to taunt him. What would he come as? Presently she roused herself with a guilty start from the task of dressing and re-dressing Mr. Believe me, Anna.
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