Suspending his labour on Jack's appearance, the man demanded his business. He then scaled the northern tower, and made his way to the summit of that part of the prison which fronted Giltspur Street. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage.
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