"You're a bold fellow, Jack," rejoined the blacksmith. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. And God had let him do it! He was—and now he perfectly understood that he was—treading the queerest labyrinth a man had ever entered. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. He glanced at it, and saw the bloodied blade.
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