Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. “I ought to look up Gwen,” she said. Nothing could exceed the dismay of these personages when they learnt why they had been summoned. ‘The man’s gone,’ her old nurse told her, when she had recovered a little. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind. The knight and his followers crossed the threshold, leaving one of the torch-bearers behind them.
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