The old gentleman, whose name was Wingate, could talk of nothing, of course, but the one absorbing subject, the Attila and her depredations. An attentive circle surrounded us as we recounted the story of the last shameful massacre.
“The ship, or whatever you call it, seems quiet again,” observed our host.
“A calm before a storm I am afraid; I dread to think what this night may have in store for us.”
“And I too. My idea of the respite is simply this—they are waiting till darkness comes on, and will take merciless advantage of the facilities it offers for the creation of panics and confusion.”
“I hear,” continued Mr. Wingate, “that the fires are being got under control, but that Westminster, Southwark, Brompton, Kensington, the City, and adjoining districts are no better than smoking ruins! Heaven shield us from this monster!”
“By the way,” I put in, “have you a good glass here? There goes the destroyer almost within hail.”
“Yes; there’s a capital one up-stairs which used to do duty at sea when I was a yachtsman. Come up-stairs and try it.”
I followed him out of the room, leaving my future father-in-law with the ladies.
Mr. Wingate took me into the bedroom immediately above, and drawing a leather case from the shelf produced a capital instrument. He had a long look first, but complained of the difficulty of following the movements of the aëronef. He then handed it to me to report, if possible, better results. Lifting the window I lay back on the floor against the side of the bed, and, steadying the barrel on the edge of the dressing-table, managed to obtain an excellent view.
“Do you see anything?”