There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. But the mere recognition of his son’s signature was enough to stoke the fires of his long-held rage. He looked half at her and half at the sky. Unless—would he hide from them as he had hidden from her? It was a big house, he said. He returned, blue towel in hand. Lady Trafford uttered a prolonged scream, and fainted. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. Gentlemen! a glass of brandy will be no bad finish to our meal. A long and secret conference then took place between the thief-taker and his myrmidons, after which they were severally dismissed. Then he opened the study door and called “Mollie!” and returned to assume an attitude of authority on the hearthrug, before the blue flames and orange glow of the gas fire.
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