"Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. I am so much obliged to you for your projected benevolence. Hogarth, before the jailer," replied Jack. Ruth felt his hand grow cold as it slipped from hers. What was the wench at? Yet he could not maintain this stand off forever. 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.
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