" Du Val was hang'd, and the next who came On the selfsame stone inscribed his name: "Aha!" quoth the dubsman, with devilish glee, "Tom Waters your doom is the triple tree! With your chisel so fine, tra la!" "Tut, tut, tut," he cried, "what a fool I am to be sure! I ought to have cut John, not Jack. Courtlaw—Lady Mackinnor. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. He turned me so that he could have a companion in his loneliness. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries.
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