This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. In the beginning it was a dictionary. A militiaman came belting down the stairs, another leapt from outside the front door, and a third, stalwart and stolid, came in through the door that led to the rooms to the front of the house. It never is. The hangman is always an object of peculiar detestation to the mob, a tremendous hooting hailed his appearance, and both staves and swords were required to preserve order. She stepped back quickly, and her hand knocked a wine-glass from the table to smash noisily on the floor. And here she was—in a mess because it had been impossible for her to avoid leaning upon another man. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure.
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