THE SILVER CORD.
BY SHIRLEY BROOKS.
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CHAPTER LXXX.
There is a crowd about the gate of the garden that is before the house in the avenue, but the people do not come nearer than the gate, for the police is there, and stern orders are given to stand away, and no one dares to climb upon the coping of the little wall, which, in England, would have long since been swarming with a double line of clinging gazers.
It is easy enough to keep off a well-behaved and obedient mob, but it is not so easy for the all-powerful police to enter the house, although they know that a fierce deed has been done there. The front door has been tried in every way, but the key inside prevents false keys from being used, and all the united force of the stalwart gendarmes has been brought to bear, but vainly. But the police are in earnest, and the crowd stands back as an officer passes out to summon the nearest blacksmith. Meantime other officers inspect the lower windows, but they are securely fastened with shutters, and to break in that way will require instruments.
They listen, however, and order silence in the crowd that they may listen the better, and the intelligent French mob instantly comprehends the object, and is hushed. But the police do not give sign that they can hear anything within. It would be strange if they could.
The officer has not returned with the blacksmith, and two Englishmen arrive hastily. These are Hawkesley and Aventayle. The crowd let them pass, and the former addresses a few words to one of the gendarmes, and is recognised and admitted, with his friend, before he has finished his sentence.
“Why does not somebody get a ladder, and go through a first-floor window? There is one open,” is the prompt and practical demand of Mr. Aventayle.
But the police look coldly at the speaker, and prefer to do things in their own way. And here
