It was denied him, for as he closed his eyes—though but for an instant—the whole scene of his former visit to the place rose before him. “I do not think that he is quite dead. It is what I have done. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. On examining the door, he found it secured by a large rusty lock, which he endeavoured to pick with the nail he had just acquired; but all his efforts proving ineffectual, he removed the plate that covered it with the bar, and with his fingers contrived to draw back the bolt. Wood turned to look at him. Couldn’t face me with what he’d done, the miserable blackguard. Cocking the gun. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. She answered slowly.
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