As it was feared that some mischief would ensue, Wild volunteered, if he were allowed a small body of men, to ride forward to Tyburn, and keep the ground clear until the arrival of the prisoner. He took her hand and looked into her eyes and spoke, divided against himself, in a voice that was forced and insincere. "I am, Charcoal. The stranger started at the touch, and spoke. Now, Sir. The air was sharp and bracing, and the leaves which had taken their autumnal tints were falling from the trees. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
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