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’ Hilary’s jaw dropped open, and he stood stupidly staring, the nun’s clothing dangling from his hand. "Do nothing without consulting my father—your father, Thames," she implored. Damn! I’ve splashed. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. He must have married when he was quite a young man. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. There was a gulf of eight years between her and the youngest of her brace of sisters—an impassable gulf inhabited chaotically by two noisy brothers. "No," rejoined Thames, "I won't be treated like a common felon, if I can help it.
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