Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Ever hear of the djinn in the bottle? Like enough. Will you stand by and watch me?" The contents of the trunk only thickened the fog. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. His attitude toward her was purely intellectual, free of any sentimentality, utterly selfish. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls.
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