In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. It ceased to be the symbol of liberty and a remote and quite abstracted person, and became suddenly and very disagreeably the token of a large and portentous body visible and tangible. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Jack Sheppard is a match for Jonathan Wild, any day. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. She felt sickeningly empty. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight.
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