She pointed suddenly at the portrait. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. So let me assure you now that we are not accusing you of a crime. I shall count it a privilege. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. ” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage.
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