’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. His countenance was pale as death, but not a muscle quivered; nor did he betray the slightest appearance of fear. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. “Quite on my own,” she said. He yelled to her, asking her if she wished to have a drink with him, which she refused. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames.
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