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" "Not in the least, Sir," replied Tom, in a drowsy tone, and with a look seeming to imply that he was too much accustomed to odd noises at night to heed them. The benches running round the room, though fastened to the walls by iron clamps, had been forcibly wrenched off; while the table, which was similarly secured to the boards, was upset, and its contents—bottles, jugs, glasses, and bowls were broken and scattered about in all directions. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. Your aunt liked the pheasant. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t. ’ ‘Why should you care?’ demanded Roding, exasperated. Do you know of what I speak?” “I do, I do!” She said. "Your detective has been remiss in his duty; let him suffer for it. ’ The lady frowned suspiciously. Swiftly following the sound of knocking, she crossed right and passed through a door near the windows—and found herself in the bookroom. .

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