"Lean on me," said Jack. A few bricks, dislodged probably by his last descent, came clattering down the chimney, and as it was perfectly dark, gave him the notion that some one was endeavouring to force an entrance into the room. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Before a word could be said, however, a slight noise was heard in the chimney, and Jack with his irons on descended from it. Everyone will grumble to you confidentially—Miss Ellicot, she’s our swagger young lady, you know—up there, next to Miss White, she will tell you that it is so out of the world here, so far away from everyone one knows. Supposing the wire should break and her head tumble off her shoulders into the street? The whimsey caused another smile to ripple across her lips. Presently the odour of burnt powder mingled agreeably with that of the incense. The first peg was torture.
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