Gregory B. I’m not half smart enough for the West End. Moving swiftly to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at random and entered a large room, which looked to have been a saloon, judging from the faded gilt and crimson wall-paper, a mirror above the fireplace which was surrounded by an ornate gilded frame, now sadly tarnished, and a worn Chippendale sofa with striped upholstery and tasselled cushions. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. In this way, more than a month passed over. This is a case either of suicide or murder. “Mr. —'It's all up with us,' says he; 'they've taken away our charter.
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