She found him reclined, watching television in a small guest room hidden in a back wing of the massive house. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. Except for the dull eyes and the extreme pallor of his face, there was nothing else to indicate that he was deep in liquor. Look out, it’s coming. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. Here, then, but for the time and place, might be another Sidney Carton.
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