Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. "Curse me, if I don't think all the world means to cross the Thames this fine night," observed Ben. She counted three on the way to the train and four more on the crowded car that would have gladly taken him to bed with not so much as a word. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. Her husband was drinking in the tavern with the other guests. Here, it might be anything at all. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. "Take care of your charge.
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