“And this saucy Williams, as you call him, has got hold of it already, and believes it true!”
“It is not surprising; there are so many small and probable facts accompanying it.”
“I suppose you know what Shakspeare calls such an invention, Mr. Timms?” said Mary Monson, smiling.
“I am not particularly acquainted with that author, ma’am I know there was such a writer, and that he was thought a good deal of, in his day; but I can’t say I have ever read him.”
The beautiful prisoner turned her large expressive blue eyes on her companion with a gaze of wonder; but her breeding prevented her from uttering what she certainly thought and felt.
“Shakspeare is a writer very generally esteemed,” she answered, after one moment of muttering, and one moment to control herself; “I believe he is commonly placed at the head of our English literature, if not at the head of that of all times and nations—Homer, perhaps, excepted.”
“What! higher, do you think, Miss Mary, than Blackstone and Kent!”
“Those are authors of whom I know nothing, Mr. Timms; but now, sir, I will listen to your errand here to-night.”
“It is the old matter. Williams has been talking to me again, touching the five thousand dollars.”
“Mr. Williams has my answer. If five thousand cents would buy him off, he should not receive them from me.”