He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. You have neither reason nor logic. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. Most of the vessels lying in the river were driven from their moorings, dashed tumultuously against each other, or blown ashore.
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