"Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. The blow was scarcely dealt, when, with a bound like that of a tiger, Blueskin sprang upon him. I’ve a dread of love dropping its petals, becoming mean and ugly. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. . Blueskin is booked. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. He was snoring stupidly. “If he is not here now I can make myself safe. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust.
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