Perhaps Sir John is going to take the other one under his wing. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Arrived at Westbourne-Green—then nothing more than a common covered with gorse and furzebushes, and boasting only a couple of cottages and an alehouse—he perceived through the hedges the objects of his search slowly ascending the gentle hill that rises from KensallGreen. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. ‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her.
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