For on reaching the second floor, a swishing sound came to Gerald’s ears, as of someone moving about. He brought home her first “meal”, a man who he 77 claimed was a highwayman who had raped several women and was destined for the hangman’s noose. Hurrying in the direction of the supposed arrest, they encouraged each other with shouts, and threatened the offending parties with their vengeance. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. There was something markedly and deliberately liberal-minded in his manner in all their encounters. Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag.
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