“I suppose I shall have to write an answer. "Well, Jack," said the prize-fighter, in a rough, but friendly voice, and with a cutand-thrust abrupt manner peculiar to himself; "how are you, lad, eh? Sorry to see you here. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. " "Your husband?" "No. Let him be sure. Nor, indeed, did she want to refuse. I get the worst headaches. He used to call it his fire-escape—ha! ha! I've often used the ladder for my own convenience, but I never expected to turn it to such good account. That might happen on her birthday—in August. She was dressed in one of those complicated dresses that are all lace and work and confused patternings of black and purple and cream about the body, and she was in many ways a younger feminine version of the same theme as himself.
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