Already, perhaps, the assassins were penetrating--or had penetrated--to the house; and at any moment such sounds might greet them as would announce the execution of their murderous design.
Meanwhile Mr.Trenchard, having relighted his pipe, and set his hat rakishly atop his golden wig, strolled up the High Street, swinging his long cane very much like a gentleman taking the air in quest of an appetite for supper.

He strolled past the Cross and on until he came to the handsome mansion--one of the few handsome houses in Bridgwater--where opulent Mr.Newlington had his residence.

A small crowd had congregated about the doors, for word had gone forth that His Majesty was to sup there.

Trenchard moved slowly through the people, seemingly uninterested, but, in fact, scanning closely every face he encountered.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he espied in the indifferent light Mr.Richard Westmacott.
Trenchard passed him, jostling him as he went, and strolled on some few paces, then turned, and came slowly back, and observed that Richard had also turned and was now watching him as he approached.