“G. ‘I begin to ask myself why it is that I wish to become of these people. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. “I know. The cage at Willesden was, and is—for it is still standing—a small round building about eight feet high, with a pointed tiled roof, to which a number of boards, inscribed with the names of the parish officers, and charged with a multitude of admonitory notices to vagrants and other disorderly persons, are attached. Immediately beneath her lay Willesden,—the most charming and secluded village in the neighbourhood of the metropolis—with its scattered farm-houses, its noble granges, and its old grey church-tower just peeping above a grove of rook-haunted trees. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. Perhaps you will meet him someday. She laughed a little bitterly. The veranda bamboo will be enough for me. ’ ‘This, monsieur le major, is entirely your own affair,’ said the lady, haughty again. Not Trodger. Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. ’ ‘But if she’s going to gaol—’ ‘Just keep watch, like you’ve been told,’ Roding said severely, turning to glare at his sergeant. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life.
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