The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. Prison was beastly. "A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head. “If it will keep you busy,” he said, with a faintly ironical smile. One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. Sir John once more looked around him. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. This gloom was impossible.
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