They alighted at the restaurant, and stood for a moment in the passage looking into the crowded room. “Eight, Cavendish Square. " And muttering some remarks, which we do not care to repeat, reflecting upon the consistency of the sex, he was preparing once more to depart, when Mrs. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't.
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