CHAPTER LXXII.
ANOTHER VICTIM.
Johanna started.
“St. Dunstan’s,” said the stranger.
“What?” said Todd.
“St. Dunstan’s last Sunday, I don’t think was so highly-scented with the flavour of the grave as usual.”
“Oh,” said Todd.
Johanna trembled, for certainly Todd looked suspicious, and yet what could he have seen? Literally nothing, for he was so situated that the slight action of the stranger, in putting the slip of paper into her jacket-pocket, must have escaped him with all his watchfulness. She gathered courage. Todd glanced at her, saying—
“What is the matter, Charley? you don’t look well at all, my lad.”
“I am not very well, sir.”
“How sorry I am; I think, do you know, Charley,”—Todd was lathering the man’s face as he spoke—”that one of Mrs. Lovett’s hot pies would be the thi
