’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. Though he walked by the side of the governor, he seldom exchanged a word with him, but appeared wholly absorbed in the contemplations inspired by a broadbowled Dutch pipe. They were those of the Irish watchman. . . Something he saw there had a curious effect upon him. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Twelve years, then, have elapsed since the date of the occurrences detailed in the preceding division of this history. Brendon and I are great chums,” he went on nervously.
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