On taxing his recollection, the whole circumstance rushed to mind with painful distinctness. Besides, you cannot visit people armed with a pistol in London, you know. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. The old lady clearly read his state of mind, for the apparently irrepressible dimple peeped out. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. A brief description will suffice for them.
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