8. ’ The lady hesitated a moment, her eyes seeming to measure the distance between where he stood and the door. . . He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. You will go to London?” “It is necessary,” she answered. Hartford, Connecticut; she had registered that address; but there was something so mystifyingly Oriental about her that the address only thickened the haze behind which she moved. ‘Can’t see a thing. On this side stood the instruments with which the latter piece of pleasantry had been effected,—namely, a bucket filled with paint and a brush: on that was erected a trophy, consisting of a watchman's rattle, a laced hat, with the crown knocked out, and its place supplied by a lantern, a campaign wig saturated with punch, a torn steen-kirk and ruffles, some halfdozen staves, and a broken sword. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am.
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