"She's mounting guard," he said, "with the shuvver to help, over our catch—the worst blackguard unhung."
A handsome woman of some thirty years, with masses of darkest hair cunningly disposed, neck and shoulders beautiful beyond criticism, and dressed in a peignoir of delicate simplicity, came to her husband with a rush smooth as the full-sailed speed of a three-masted schooner.
Charles, with recovered dignity, followed in her wake.
"George! What is it, George?" she exclaimed, before she had even time to get her eyes focused upon his companion.
"That," answered George, with a derisive gesture.
"Why, it's—oh, Dick!" she cried.
With her long, slender hands on his shoulders, she peered close and eagerly into the battered countenance.
"Oh, Dickie dear, whatever have they been doing to its good old face?" she demanded, with tenderness for the one, and anger for the many mingling in her voice.
"Nothing to what they got from him, Betsy—unless I'm an ass. But he'll tell us when that whisky's worked in his veins a bit. He's got a lady out there, waiting. Shall I fetch her in—or you?"
Dick half rose from his chair. But Lady Elizabeth Bruffin pushed him back into it.