Ramage, that iron-gray man of the world, appeared dressed in a bowler hat and a suit of hard gray, astride of a black horse. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. “And you?” “Same thing. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers. " "Arm yourself with that ruffian's weapons," replied Jack, "and let us search for her.
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