I can't rest for that Whitechapel of yours.
Please fetch pen and paper: it's a letter.' The letter began, 'Dear Lady Arpington.' The dictation of it came in starts.

Atone moment it seemed as if life's ending shook the curtains on our stage and were about to lift.

An old friend in the reader of the letter would need no excuse for its jerky brevity.

It said that his pet girl, Miss Kirby, was married to the Earl of Fleetwood in the first week of last month, and was now to be found at a shop No.

45 Longways, Whitechapel; that the writer was ill, unable to stir; that he would be in London within eight-and-forty hours at furthest.