“There—was n't I right about her?” said a voice from one of the stalls beneath. “That's Grog Davis. I know the fellow well.”
“I 've won my wager,” said another. “There 's old Grog leaning over her shoulder, and there can't be much doubt about her now.”
“Annesley Beecher at one side, and Grog Davis at the other,” said a third, make the case very easy reading. “I 'll go round and get presented to her.”
“Let us leave this, Davis,” whispered Beecher, while he trembled from head to foot,—“let us leave this at once. Come down to the crush-room, and I 'll find a carriage.”
“Why so—what do you mean?” said Davis; and as suddenly he followed Beecher's glance towards the pit, whence every eye was turned towards them.
That glance was not to be mistaken. It was the steady and insolent stare the world bestows upon those who have neither champions nor defenders; and Davis returned the gaze with a defiance as insulting.
“For any sake, Davis, let us get away,” whispered Beecher again. “Only think of her, if there should be any exposure!”
“Exposure!—how should there? Who 'd dare—”