She was posing before the mirror, critically, miserably, defensively, and perhaps bewilderedly. “I doubted my luck, at least. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. You never can tell. Then instinct took over. There were mysterious rustlings that made him glance hopefully toward the sea. She leaned over and kissed his cheek innocently. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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