" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. “I doubted my luck, at least. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. " "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below. "With pleasure, Sir," replied Edgeworth Bess. She climbed back into the window an hour before sunrise. " "Hum!" said Hogarth, looking fixedly at him.
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