They had both watched him pretty closely, but he seemed not to be there for a job, but only on the talking lay, probably soliciting information for some gang of thieves or other.

He had been seen to exchange a hasty word with a clergyman; but as Mark Waddy's acquaintances were not amongst the clergy, that would certainly be some pal that was in something or other with him.
"What a shrewd girl that must be!" said the Colonel.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel," said the man, not seeing the relevancy of this observation.
"Oh, nothing," said the Colonel, "only _I_ expect a visit to-morrow at twelve o'clock from a doubtful clergyman; just hang about the lawn on the chance of my giving you a signal." Thus while Monckton was mounting his batteries, his victims were preparing defenses in a sort of general way, though they did not see their way so clear as the enemy did.
Colonel Clifford's drawing-room was a magnificent room, fifty feet long and thirty feet wide.

A number of French windows opened on to a noble balcony, with three short flights of stone steps leading down to the lawn.

The central steps were broad, the side steps narrow.

There were four entrances to it: two by double doors, and two by heavily curtained apertures leading to little subsidiary rooms.
At twelve o'clock next day, what with the burst of color from the potted flowers on the balcony, the white tents, and the flags and streamers, and a clear sunshiny day gilding it all, the room looked a "palace of pleasure," and no stranger peeping in could have dreamed that it was the abode of care, and about to be visited by gloomy Penitence and incurable Fraud.
The first to arrive was Bartley, with a witness.