The footsteps drew nearer, paused, and after a moment were audible again in the yard below.
"Good Lord--it's Gavel!" "Eh ?" The boy drew closer to her shoulder.
"It's Gavel, come in a sweat for 'is 'orses.

I didn' reckernise 'im for the moment--dressed out in a fur coat an' Trilby 'at.

But it's Gavel, an' 'e's walkin' straight into Glasson's arms.

Stand by to do a bolt soon as 'e turns the corner." "But I don't see what he has to do with--with--" Arthur Miles hesitated before the terrible name.
"Glasson?
Oh, nothin'; on'y ten to one Gavel's met with the Mortimers, an', Glasson bein' on the track already--W'y, what elst is the man 'ere for ?" "He shan't take me," said the boy after a pause, and in a strained low voice which, nevertheless, had no tremor in it.

"Not if I throw myself off the ladder." "You stop that talk, please," threatened Tilda.