Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. And see!" he added, as the figures drew back, and the lights disappeared; "it's a false alarm. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. ” There was never any shortage of bad men to eat, especially with pestilence and superstition to cover their tracks. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends.
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