“Miss Ellicot!” Brendon echoed. Oh, it is unbearable. Blood, they say, won't come out. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. ” “You alarm me,” she murmured, smiling. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. I cannot go on. "You mean, it doesn't matter?" "Poor Hoddy! When you were ill in Canton, out of your head, you babbled words. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow.
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