“Yes, Sir.”

Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies could know he had come in. He ventured once to whisper, “Waiter!” through the keyhole, but the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief, flashed upon his mind, together with a sense of the strong resemblance between his own situation and that in which another gentleman had been recently found in a neighbouring hotel (an account of whose misfortunes had appeared under the head of “Police” in that morning’s paper), he sat himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently.

“We won’t wait a minute for Perker,” said Wardle, looking at his watch; “he is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come; and if he does not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha! Arabella!”

“My sister!” exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most romantic embrace.