Earles answered, glibly. “I shall not agree to six. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. He appeared to be a stranger to the prisoner, and the sole motive of his visit, curiosity. See? You marry me. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. Leonardo had taught her pretty well everything she could have need to know, when they had talked long at his bedside. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. Don’t ask me how.
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