A familiar figure was making his way towards them. " "Traitor!" cried Sir Rowland—"damned—double-dyed traitor!" "Away with him," vociferated Jonathan to his myrmidons, who, having surrounded Trenchard, hurried him off to the coach before he could utter another word,—"first to Mr. Wish SHE”—he indicated Miss Klegg’s back with a nod—“was at the bottom of the sea. A detective will be here in a few moments to make inquiries into this affair. “You should quit. ‘I wish you joy of the wench.
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