‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. " She departed reluctantly. She throws a sort of spell over us all. After what seemed like an eternity he turned right onto a dirt road that ended unceremoniously at a copse of leafless trees. Warned of the approach of the prisoners by the increased clamour, Sharples, who was busied in distributing the Marquis's donation, affected to throw the remainder of the money among the crowd, though, in reality, he kept back a couple of guineas, which he slipped into his sleeve, and running hastily up the steps, unlocked the door.
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