“Agreed,” he said, “certainly,” and drew a checkbook toward him. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it.
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