The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. What he needed most in this hour was a bottle of American rye-whisky and a friendly American bar-keep to talk to. She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. "There's a guinea to drink our health," she added, slipping a piece of money into his hand. He was a stranger.
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