Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. ‘What?’ Roding snapped, coming quickly to tower above the window seat. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. I—I hurt myself. ‘Oh, you may come to me on any mission you like,’ uttered Mrs Sindlesham roguishly.
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