’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. They were now both in a state of unprecedented physical fitness. She declined and finished with a few of her favorite excerpts from Scheherazade. For what could be more ironical than for Howard Spurlock to see himself grow famous under the name of Taber? The ambrosia of which he had so happily dreamt!—and this gall and wormwood! He stood up and rapped his pipe on the rail. Several of the assailants carried links, so that the room was a blaze of light. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. To reach it would be a most difficult undertaking. Close upon this came another thought. JACK SHEPPARD. .
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