After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. " "We waste time with this fellow," interposed Sir Cecil, "and may lose the object of our quest, who, beyond doubt, has taken refuge in this building. ” She said, rubbing Lucy’s back. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. "Release me instantly, or I will call my father. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. She spoke with an entirely false note of cheerful offhandedness. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am.
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