“Who’s that blue spider?” asked a boy; “w’y—no—surely it ain’t—yes—I do b’lieve it’s Tommy Splint!”
“Don’t believe Tommy, friends,” said old Liz, as she was about to get into the cab. “I’ll soon be back again to see you. Trust me!”
This was received with a tremendous cheer, as they all got inside except Laidlaw, who mounted the box.
“Stop!” said the latter, as the coachman was about to drive off. He pointed to the burning house, where the raging fire had reached the roof-tree. The crowd seemed awed into silence as they gazed.
One swirl more of the flaming tongues and the Garret was consumed—another swirl, and the Garden was licked from the scene as effectually as though it had never been.
Chapter Thirteen.
The Last.
How that wonderful man Detective Dean managed it all is best known to himself and those myrmidons of the law who aided and abetted him in his investigations, but certain it is that he prepared as pretty a little thunderbolt for John Lockhart, Esquire, as any man could wish to see.