" "It's all up," muttered Thames. ‘It is Yol—’ She broke off abruptly, her face collapsing into an expression of acute consternation. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. The chief scene of these disgusting orgies,—the cellar, just referred to,—was a large low-roofed vault, about four feet below the level of the street, perfectly dark, unless when illumined by a roaring fire, and candles stuck in pyramidal lumps of clay, with a range of butts and barrels at one end, and benches and tables at the other, where the prisoners, debtors, and malefactors male and female, assembled as long as their money lasted, and consumed the time in drinking, smoking, and gaming with cards and dice. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that. Queer world. She was curious to know why he had boarded a dingy train instead of hailing a cab or his own private chauffeur like the others in expensive suits were doing. “A very clear statement, madam,” he said.
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