The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. For a moment none of them stirred; then slowly Enschede turned away. The procession now wound its way, without further interruption, along Holborn. Danger, in the form he apprehended, was lurking outside: nor was he destined to enjoy long repose. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. “So what is John up to today?” Lucy asked with a weary smile.
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