She padded up the stairs to the bedroom, finding that her sheets had been changed with a fresh pillow case to welcome her weary head. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. After this occurence, not a word was exchanged between them until they came in sight of the sloop, which was lying at anchor off Wapping. ‘Looks like it. Opening the trap-door, he then descended to the vaults —searched each cell, and every nook and corner separately. " "You are heiress to the Trenchard property," rejoined Jonathan, "one of the largest estates in Lancashire. He's down in Patagonia somewhere. You have all the instinctive dexterity of parasites. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. She turned quickly. But women—women as a rule don’t throw themselves into things like that. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. "Curiosity, I suppose," returned Jack, carelessly.
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