” “Miss Ellicot! That old cat!” Sydney exclaimed indignantly. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. Sheppard. It would hurt no one. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day.
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