In the first place there were not so many suitable advertisements as she had expected. Accordingly, when she arrived at the Shovels, with which, as an old haunt in her bygone days of wretchedness she was well acquainted, instead of entering the principal apartment, which she saw at a glance was crowded with company of both sexes, she turned into a small room on the left of the bar, and, as an excuse for so doing, called for something to drink. She pushed between the pews, hoping to reach the sword first, while desperately holding on to her petticoats to keep them up, as her sword arm wavered. Those lives removed,—and Sir Rowland is completely in his power, the estates would be yours—HIS! if he were your husband. But we must not anticipate the course of events.
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