They buried him in Willesden churchyard after the robbery. ‘How do you know?’ ‘Exactly,’ pounced Roding bitterly. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. He saw the flames burst from the windows, and perhaps in that maddening spectacle suffered torture equivalent to some of the crimes he had committed. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. “You may talk—if you can talk cheerfully, not unless. Jonathan caught her in his arms.
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