"To-morrow night!" said Spurlock, in a wondering whisper. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. As sure as he is now living, I'll pay him a visit in the Old Bailey before morning. Then the incredible happened. "What is this?" she wanted to know. That’s all. Either it was an unfortunate recovery of a trail, or he had followed her from Mayfair. The youth with his hair like Russell cleared his throat and said rather irrelevantly that he knew a man who knew Thomas Bayard Simmons, who had rioted in the Strangers’ Gallery, and then Capes, finding them all distinctly pro-Ann Veronica, if not profeminist, ventured to be perverse, and started a vein of speculation upon the Scotchman’s idea—that there were still hopes of women evolving into something higher. What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless.
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