The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean. Glancing around his prison, he began to think it possible he might effect an escape from it. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. 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. “Don’t think so,” Drummond answered. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. .
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