"The ban-dogs!" thundered a tall man, whose stature and former avocations had procured him the nickname of "The long drover of the Borough market. Jests are not for seasons like this. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. "He is dying?" whispered Ruth. " Sir Rowland looked at her for a moment, as if he meditated some terrible reply.
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