Wood's at Dollis Hill, wholly unsuspicious of any designs against him, and, in fact, entirely ignorant of your being acquainted with his return, or even of his existence. I don’t believe any one could have traced us here. That's a queer yarn. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Evidently in the flower of his age, he was scarcely less remarkable for symmetry of person than for comeliness of feature; and, though his attire was plain and unpretending, it was such as could be worn only by one belonging to the higher ranks of society. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. He had hurt her. To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets.
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