This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Ann Veronica brought her luggage in a cab from the hotel; she tipped the hotel porter sixpence and overpaid the cabman eighteenpence, unpacked some of her books and possessions, and so made the room a little homelike, and then sat down in a by no means uncomfortable arm-chair before the fire. Catch him, she begged silently. His gaze remained steady on the old dame’s face, as he thought about it. Presently repellance grew under the frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it. At nine o'clock, the sheriffs arrived, followed by their officers and javelin-men. There sat Jack, evidently in the last stage of intoxication, with his collar opened, his dress disarranged, a pipe in his mouth, a bowl of punch and a halfemptied rummer before him,—there he sat, receiving and returning, or rather attempting to return,—for he was almost past consciousness,—the blandishments of a couple of females, one of whom had passed her arm round his neck, while the other leaned over the back of his chair and appeared from her gestures to be whispering soft nonsense into his ear. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. . ’ ‘What? But—’ ‘Precisely, Hilary.
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