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Kneebone," observed Shotbolt, as he emptied his tenth tumbler; "I'm sure he's meditating an escape, and hopes to accomplish it to-night. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. One must be on guard. Just as they reached the end of the passage, they heard the voices of Jonathan and the Jew in Thames's late place of confinement. " "Who told you this is his portrait?" demanded Trenchard.
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