When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. He seemed to have shrunken in his seat. “They have all been trying to turn my head. Habits and tastes are no longer the same. ‘My dear boy, your loyalty is misplaced. Taking up a link, which was blazing beside him, he walked across the room; and touching a spring in the wall, a secret door flew open.
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