" "Zounds!" exclaimed Wood; "it's my old master-key. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. A gust of irrational impatience blew through her being. . Then a roar of hisses. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood. I'll go alone. Apologizing to Sir Rowland for this unpleasant reception, and swearing lustily at his servant for occasioning it by leaving the dogs at liberty, Jonathan ordered the man to light them to the audience-room.
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