The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. Sit down, I command you. The stranger concluded he could not be far from his destination, and a turn in the road showed him the house. "Help!—murder!—thieves!" screamed Mrs. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. "To—to—no matter what," returned the widow distractedly. The youth with the hair brushed back and the spectacled Scotchman joined in the fray for and against the women’s vote. The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition.
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