She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. On this elevation a table was now placed, around which sat the turnkeys and their guests, regaling themselves on the fragrant beverage provided by the prisoner. But I expect him back every minute. “These are for you. Kneebone assures me he didn't receive them, I can't do otherwise than believe you. "This is not the way to obtain it," said Winifred, endeavouring to reach the door. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings.
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