There was a discreet knocking at the door, and Ramage’s face changed. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. I arranged that he should. Ascending the stairs, and conducting them along a sombre gallery, in which Trenchard noticed that every door was painted black, and numbered, he stopped at the entrance of a chamber; and, selecting a key from the bunch at his girdle, unlocked it. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. . ” The cab rumbled off.
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