Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. E. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. They had not to tarry long. “You told me that your name was Meysey Hill. ’ ‘Ah, that was an affair altogether different,’ she explained and fluttered her long lashes at him. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman.
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