"I will accompany you at once, my dear! Poor Mrs. Holywell! But it is
the fate of all flesh! How did you come, pray? It rains, does it not?"

A fierce gust of wind rattled the double windows, and frantically beat
the rain against them by way of answer.

"I came in a carriage, sir. It is at the door now."

"That is well. I will not detain you an instant. Ah! poor Mrs.
Holywell!"

The parson's hat and overcoat hung in the room. In a moment they were
on; in another he was following the very respectable young woman
down-stairs; in a third he was scrambling after her into the carriage;
in a fourth they were rattling wildly over the wet, stony streets; in a
fifth the reverend gentleman was grasped in a vise-like grip, and a
voice close to his ear--a man's voice--hissed:

"Speak one word, make the least outcry, and you are a dead man!"

The interior of the carriage was in utter darkness.

The Reverend Mr. Rashleigh gave one panting gasp, and fell back in his
seat. High living and long indolence had made him a complete craven.
Life was inestimably precious to the portly pastor of St. Pancras'.
After that one choking gasp, he sat quivering all over, like
calves'-foot jelly.

"Bandage his eyes, Sarah, while I tie his hands," said the man's voice.
"My dear sir, don't shake so; it is almost impossible to do anything