A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. For a moment she thought of saying yes, and then filled with shame. I called myself Anna. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored. Though within the last two days he had committed several heinous offences, and one of a darker dye than any with which the reader has been made acquainted, his breast was not yet so callous as to be wholly insensible to the stings of conscience.
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