After knocking for some time at the door without effect, he tried the latch, and to his surprise found it open. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. In any case, there was no doing anything on a Sunday and Brewis Charvill, his main quarry, had gone out of town unexpectedly. When mistress took and died—’ Joan broke off and sighed, moving away to the window. ’ The old man simply stared at her. “Dear me! I wonder where Sir John picked her up. I'll send you word when I catch him. All the turnkeys were assembled. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. Stanley changed his key. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The policemen were closing in from the sides to intervene. And as he gave back the portfolio to Sir Rowland he contrived, unobserved, to slip the precious document into his sleeve, and from thence into his pocket.
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