“You be off, missie,” said the fatherly policeman. Montague Hill. He insisted once again on opening the car door for her. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch. In no way could he be said to contribute to the gaiety of the little party. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. Hoped you'd not be retaken. We'll have him yet. As Mrs. Capes—the ‘Capes crave,’ they would call it in America.
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