"At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. From his wallet he brought forth a yellow letter. Happen what might, he could not be in a worse position. He was out of breath, and spoke in broken sentences. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. “You ass and imbecile, Ann Veronica! You female cad! Cad! Cad!. ’ ‘Damnation!’ ‘What the devil ails you?’ demanded his friend, striding forward. On the same peg and evidently belonging to it was a black velvet Zouave jacket.
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