Getting back the ice was rather a serious affair. "What the devil are you howling about?" cried Langley. Constance Widgett’s abundant copper-red hair was bent down over some dimly remunerative work—stencilling in colors upon rough, white material—at a kitchen table she had dragged up-stairs for the purpose, while on her bed there was seated a slender lady of thirty or so in a dingy green dress, whom Constance had introduced with a wave of her hand as Miss Miniver. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. She felt sharp animal teeth pierce her above her shoulder. “I must repeat,” Sir John said, “that I much regret disturbing you at such an unseemly hour. Whether the turnkey entertained any suspicion of the old man, Jack could not tell, but that night he was more than usually rigorous in his search; and having carefully examined the prisoners and finding nothing to excite his suspicions, he departed tolerably satisfied.
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