But God did not put you next door. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. ‘I suppose you think I can’t manage it myself,’ had complained Captain Roding sarcastically. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. The person, shortly afterwards ushered into the room, seemed by the imperfect light,—for the evening was advancing, and the chamber darkened by heavy drapery,—to be a middle-sized middle-aged man, of rather vulgar appearance, but with a very shrewd aspect. Spurling and Marvel rose too. "In Heaven's name! what's all this?" cried Wood.
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