Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. "I have never been out of this horrible dungeon since we last met," he said; "though how long ago that is, I scarcely know. You might have spared yourself many useless journeys and disappointments, and us a good deal of anxiety. Courtlaw rose to his feet. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. ‘None of them means anything to you at all? How odd. Leonardo had told her it would happen, and warned her to make use of it.
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