It was a dull, foggy day, and the atmosphere was so thick and heavy, that, at eight o'clock, the curious who arrived near the prison could scarcely discern the tower of St. Mr. He was tall, nearly six feet, and from his stature it was clear that he spent some spare time working on his physique. Though by no means so extensive or commodious as the modern prison, Old Newgate was a large and strongly-built pile. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned. The next few hours will tell. He came as an agreeable diversion from an insoluble perplexity. On the north stood the battlements of one of the towers of the gate. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. ” Hill staggered to his feet and drew a folded paper from his pocket.
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