" "Not unless your skull's bullet-proof," cried a voice at his elbow; and, as the words were uttered, a pistol was snapped at his head, which,—fortunately or unfortunately, as the reader pleases,—only burnt the priming. The rest was easy. Wood, with a candle in his hand, which Jack instantly blew out, and darted down stairs. But that explains everything. Solomon Smith seemed to be Mr. 1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg-tm License. Startled by this circumstance, he looked around, and perceived that the trap-door,—which has been mentioned as communicating with a secret staircase,—was open. The unfortunate prisoner, meanwhile, who was not informed of the respite, languished in his horrible dungeon, and, at the expiration of three weeks, became so seriously indisposed that it was feared he could not long survive. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. I—well, I lost my temper.
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