The deafening report froze time. To-morrow night —or rather to-night, for we are fast verging on another day—I propose to lure him out of the house by a stratagem which I am sure will prove infallible; and, then, what so easy as to knock him on the head. "Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. He was an outside broker and the proprietor of a financial newspaper; he had come up very rapidly in the last few years, and Mr. Maggot was equipped in a light blue riding-habit, trimmed with silver, a hunting-cap and a flaxen peruke, and, instead of a whip, carried a stout cudgel. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. I got three pounds, and there’s three on my watch. ‘You’re right. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of his dues. I can bear anything but suspense. For a time Ann Veronica went on her way gauging the quality of sordid streets.
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