Suddenly he felt Ruth swing violently away from him, and he wheeled to learn the cause. Spurling, formerly, it may be remembered, the hostess of the Dark House at Queenhithe,—whence wine, ale, and brandy of inferior quality were dispensed, in false measures, and at high prices, throughout the prison, which in noise and debauchery rivalled, if it did not surpass, the lowest tavern. It would be difficult to find another human being subjected to so many angles of attack as Spurlock. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. “Steady on!” he cried. He did it, he said, “to distract his mind.
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