The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. They began the evening like usual, driving down highways and byways. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. ‘Tell me, my boy. ’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. Crack went the whip, and away floundered the heavy vehicle through the deep ruts of the ill-kept road, or rather lane, (for it was little better,) which, then, led across Southampton Fields. " "Rely on me," rejoined the executioner, throwing away his pipe, which was just finished. Then a hansom drove up, and his heart gave a great leap.
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