’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. John did not see her until the last period. Perhaps because I don’t know. The rest were hieroglyphic characters, executed in red chalk and charcoal. The whole affair interested him deeply. All she had found was the love of this dog.
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