Gay, by his strokes of pleasantry, whether in his writings or conversation, never lost a friend. Satisfied, however, that she did not notice him, Jonathan glided away as noiselessly as he came, and ascended another short flight of stairs leading to the garret. He allowed his irons and clothes to be taken off without resistance. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. "This young fool is come to restore the article—whatever it may be—which Lady Trafford was anxious to conceal, and which his companion purloined. Uttering a faint scream, she sank backwards, and would have fallen, if it had not been for the interposition of Blueskin, who, at that moment, staggered into the room with a candle in one hand, and the bottle in the other. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. "Hell's curses!" roared Jonathan.
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