"It's the tall girl in the travelling duster and the blue ribbons that
wants to know if Mr. Coristine is here."
"Fwhat? my own dare young mishtress, Miss Ceshile Jewplesshy; shure it's
her that do have the blue ribbins, an' the dushter. Do yeez know that
swate young crathur, Sor?"
"I do not," replied Coristine abruptly, and added, _sotto voce_, "thank
goodness!" Then he relit his pipe, and buried his head in the Puck book,
from the contemplation of which the Irish veteran was too polite to seek
to withdraw his attention. In a few minutes, the door opened and closed
with a slam, and Wilkinson, pale and trembling, stood before him.
"Eugene, my dear friend," he stammered, "I'll never forgive myself for
leading you and me into a trap, a confounded, diabolical, deep-laid
trap, sir, a gin, a snare, a woman's wile. Let us get off anywhere, at
Aurora, Newmarket, Holland Landing, Scanlans, anywhere to escape these
harpies."
"What's the matter, old man?" enquired Coristine, with a poor attempt at
calmness.
"Matter!" replied Wilkinson, "it's this matter, that they have found us
out, and the girl with the cream coloured ribbons and crimson wrapper
has asked that villainous news-agent if my name is not Wilkinson, and if
I don't teach in the Sacheverell Street School.
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