The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position. "My father!" she whispered. " "Write him," urged Spurlock, finding speech. Jack hastily retreated, and taking the first means of concealment that occurred to him, descended the cellar steps. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her.
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