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. The first of these, whom he addressed as Mr. Fate! You are so frank so splendid! “I’m taking this calmly now,” he said, almost as if he apologized, “because I’m a little stunned. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “I will not have this slavery.
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