” She watched his face as he traced his way through these speculative thickets. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ’ He glanced at Roding. Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. Infested by every description of vagabond and miscreant, it was, perhaps, a few degrees worse than the rookery near Saint Giles's and the desperate neighbourhood of Saffron Hill in our own time. "Where is the boy?" demanded Sir Rowland.
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