At half after five that afternoon the doctor and his friend McClintock entered the office of the Victoria. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. And though I say it that shouldn't say it, no man can tie a better knot.
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