"But, where's the strange gentleman I saw under the table?" "Under the table!" echoed Blueskin, winking at Jack. Smith, "upon my conscience. "We may trust him," he added in a whisper; "he is a staunch friend of the good cause. His apparel was sumptuous in the extreme, and such as was only worn by persons of the highest distinction. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. .
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