Mary Arkroyd,
had never been more forcibly struck with his protege's ill-favoredness
than when he arrived home on this same evening, and the Sergeant met him
at the door.
"By gad, Sergeant," he observed pleasantly, "I don't think anybody could
be such a rascal as you look. It's that faith that carries me through."
The Sergeant helped him off with his coat. "It's some people's
stock-in-trade," he remarked, "not to look a rascal like they really are,
sir." The "sir" stuck out of pure habit; it carried no real implication
of respect.
"Meaning me!" laughed Beaumaroy. "How's the old man to-night?"
"Quiet enough. He's in the Tower there--been there an hour or more."
The cottage door opened on to a narrow passage, with a staircase on one
side, and on the other a door leading to a small square parlor,
cheerfully if cheaply furnished, and well lit by an oil lamp. A fire
blazed on the hearth, and Beaumaroy sank into a "saddle-bag" armchair
beside it, with a sigh of comfort. The Sergeant had jerked his head
towards another door, on the right of the fireplace; it led to the Tower.
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