’ ‘How exciting. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. ” Annabel shrugged her shoulders. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. Gracious, there’s the gong. "Where shall I fly?" exclaimed the lady, bewildered with terror. “One moment, if you please!” She stopped short and looked round.
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