’ Trodger had started towards the stairs, signing to his men to get behind the lady. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. I asked him—to take me away. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “I’m so glad my Mom’s letting me go out tonight. ‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.
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