The hansom drove off. "During the whole of that time I have been a close prisoner in Newgate, whence I have only just escaped. Wild!" demanded Trenchard, as if he had formed a sudden resolution. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. Cautiously stepping outside, he looked up towards the terrace. At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way.
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