CHAPTER VIII. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. Do not mistake me. You must know, Sir, when he was a lad, the day after he broke into his master's house in Wych Street, he picked a gentleman's pocket in our church, during sarvice time,—that he did, the heathen. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. ” “Capital!” Mr. “Good-bye,” he said earnestly. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. He’s the handle of life for you.
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