" "Gem'men o' the votch!" cried Sharples, as loudly as a wheezy cough would permit him, "my noble pris'ner—ough! ough;—the Markis o' Slaughterford ——" Further speech was cut short by a volley of execrations from the angry guardians of the night. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. ’ ‘I was called in, ma’am, to catch a French spy—at least, that is what Pottiswick thought.
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