"Tell me frankly, and speak under your breath. "Sir Rowland is murdered!" cried Jack, as soon as he could find a tongue. Never had he been so intrigued. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Who but you would have dreamed of giving the boy such a name? Why, it's the name of a river, not a Christian. And they’ll shut the gates presently. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. " "Not your only chance, Thames," returned Jack, in the same undertone; "but your best.
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