He was—a millionaire. There was little more here than a sideboard, a chest for the vestments, and a simple wooden chair. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. "It's too late to carry 'em before a magistrate now, Sir Rowland; so, with your permission, I'll give 'em a night's lodging in Saint Giles's round-house. He was roused from the stupor of despair into which he had sunk by the voice of Ben, who roared in his ear, "The bridge!—the bridge!" CHAPTER VII.
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