And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. Wood's, the carpenter in Wych Street. Ramage—about the forty pounds. ‘Wait for me. Ennison,” she exclaimed, “is that really you?” There was no sign of embarrassment in her manner. Now let us forget it. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. " "Think not to delude me, audacious wretch," cried the carpenter.
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