I next proceeded to Jenny Bunch's, the Ship, in Trig Lane—there I got the same answer. " "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. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. ‘Maman?’ ‘How touching,’ said a sarcastic voice behind her in French. Good-bye, aunt. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. Skin astonishingly clear except for a spray of blackheads on each side of her nose. She dismissed the idea of doing so. "Ye-ah," said O'Higgins, jovially. No matter. ’ ‘Lord, man, it’s only a scratch!’ Suddenly Gerald snapped his fingers.
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