After receiving an assurance from both that she might safely do so, she proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe by name and situation the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider a few moments for the purpose of recalling his features and appearance more forcibly to her recollection. “He is tall,” said the girl, “and a strongly made man, but not stout; he has a lurking walk, and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, first on one side and then on the other. Don’t forget that, for his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man’s, that you might almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes, but, although he can’t be more than six or eight and twenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of teeth, for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds—why did you start?” said the girl, stopping suddenly. The gentleman replied in a hurried manner that he was not conscious of having done so, and begged her to proceed. “Part of this,” said the girl, “I’ve drawn out from other people at the house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was covered up in a large cloak. I think that’s all I can give you to know him by. Stay though,” she added. “Upon his throat, so high that you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face, there is—” “A broad red mark, like a burn or scald,” cried the gentleman. “How’s this!” said the girl. “You know him!” The young lady uttered a cry of extreme surprise, and for a few moments they were so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe. “I think I do,” said the gentleman, breaking silence. “I should by your description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other, though,—it may not be the same.” As he expressed himself to this effect with assumed carelessness, he took a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, “It must be he!” “Now,” he said, returning, so it seemed by the sound, to the spot where he had stood before, “you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?” “Nothing,” replied Nancy. “You will not persist in saying that,” rejoined the gentleman with a voice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more obdurate heart. “Think now. Tell me.”