Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure, blown over. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Is there nothing you do not know?’ she asked faintly. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose.
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