She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Well, if she survives the accident—as the blood, who styles himself Sir Cecil, fancies she may do—this ring will make my fortune by leading to the discovery of the chief parties concerned in this strange affair. “You could have told me about it, Michelle. Well, I shall be sorry to lose him, Mr. Manning, in an earnest voice, and waved his hand to the alley of mauve and purple. “It’s a nice holiday. Is it an old ring?” he asked, returning it.
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