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It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. ‘But what will happen to Lucia? Are we to kill her?’ ‘Of course not. Earles scratched his chin for a moment thoughtfully.
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