The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. "No," replied Jonathan, with a brutal laugh. Behind them stalked Blueskin, enveloped in a rough great-coat, called—appropriately enough in this instance,—a wrap-rascal. Around her neck was a little gold chain. "Pah! He's a fool. "Sit down, fool!" "Jack," said Kneebone, who had been considerably interested by the foregoing scene, "are these regrets for your past life sincere?" "Suppose them so," rejoined Jack, "what then?" "Nothing—nothing," stammered Kneebone, his prudence getting the better of his sympathy.
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