The street was deserted, no pedestrian school-goers walked immediately in front or behind them. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. ‘Your master in?’ he demanded of the astonished footman, removing his cockaded hat and handing it over. It appeared from what he said that he had been captured when asleep,—that his liquor had been drugged,—otherwise, he would never have allowed himself to be taken alive. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind.
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