"You had better let me convey her to Dollis Hill," he said. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. Besides, there are greater rascals than Jack Sheppard at liberty, Sir Rowland. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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