THE LOVE OF MONSIEUR
man level in the eyes was now sunk into his shoulders—not in humiliation or abasement, but in a silent acquiescence to the whelming sense of defeat that was his.
Cornbury, his red poll glowing a dull ember in the moonlight, stood by the side of his friend, erect, smiling—his usual inscrutable self. Presently, when a lantern had been brought, the man with the black beard came forward again and placed himself, arms akimbo, before the bedraggled figures of the fugitives. His voice was coarse and thick, like his face and body. As he leaned sideways to accommodate the squint of one eye and looked at them in high humor, an odor of garlic and brandy proclaimed itself so generously that even the rising breeze could not whip it away.
“Soho!” he said again. “Soho! soho!” while he swayed drunkenly from one foot to the other. “Queer fishin’ even for the Thames, mateys. Soho! If there be luck in hodd numbers, then ’ere’s the very luck o’ Danny McGraw, for of all the hoddities—Ho, Redhead, whither was ye bound? Newgate or Tyburn or
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