Chapter XXVIII THE HISSING OF “ALCIDE” There was a strange and ominous murmur of voices, a shuffling of feet in the gallery, a silence, which was like the silence before a storm. Then light footsteps became audible, descending the staircase with a certain deliberation and a faint rustle of skirts. They reached Wimbledon, and Ramage whipped out to hand Miss Stanley to the platform as though she had been a duchess, and she descended as though such attentions from middle-aged, but still gallant, merchants were a matter of course. She was aware of the body of the court, of clerks seated at a black table littered with papers, of policemen standing about stiffly with expressions of conscious integrity, and a murmuring background of the heads and shoulders of spectators close behind her. ’ ‘Ain’t you in a rage?’ asked the captain. . . The latter haughtily returned his salutation, and flung himself, as if exhausted, into a chair. It’s exactly how it went down with me and Josh Durbin. “What has she told you?” “Everything. The doctor frowned. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo.
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