It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. At this moment, the bell began to toll in a peculiar manner, announcing the approach of the corpse. Perhaps an hour later he would begin again. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead. “Perhaps you will not object to answering one for me. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. Aware that he should incur the thief-taker's bitterest animosity by what he had done, the watchman, whose wrath against Quilt Arnold had evaporated during the walk, thought it more prudent not to hazard a meeting with his master, till the storm had, in some measure, blown over.
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