Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Through her door curtain she could see the light from the study lamp. In this way, more than a month passed over. 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. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. For she and this old lady became at once friends. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford.
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