"No. Her husband doesn't know she's here; but, waiter, Mr Chatterton does." Mr Clam accompanied this piece of information with a significant wink, which, however, made no sensible impression on the waiter's mind.
"Yes, Chatterton does; for you may depend on it, by this time he's found out who she is."
"Yes, sir. Have you secured a place, sir?"
"Now, she wouldn't have her husband know she is here for the world."
"Outside or in, sir? The office is next door"—continued the waiter.
"Then, there's a tall gentleman, who speaks with a curious accent. I wonder who the deuce he can be."
"No luggage but this, sir? Porter will take it to the office, sir."
"Nor that dreadful he-woman in the hat—who the mischief can she be? What had Chatterton done?—who is the husband?—who is the lady? Waiter, is there a lunatic asylum here?"
"No, sir. We've a penitentiary."
"Then, 'pon my davit, the young woman"—