When in the plenitude of his power, he commenced a terrible trade, till then unknown—namely, a traffic in human blood. Beneath these prints, a cluster of hobnails, driven into the wall, formed certain letters, which, if properly deciphered, produced the words, "Paul Groves, cobler;" and under the name, traced in charcoal, appeared the following record of the poor fellow's fate, "Hung himsel in this rum for luv off licker;" accompanied by a graphic sketch of the unhappy suicide dangling from a beam. “I think I can tell you something which may be very good news for you presently. ’ He clenched his fists and grew red in the face. "Now, lead me to a hotel where I can get breakfast. Every one took him for the millionaire, and he had lost his head about me. .
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