Tyson was nowhere to be seen.

They drove quickly home.
At the corner of Francis Street the hansom drew up with a jerk and waited.

A crowd blocked the way.

She leaned forward with a little cry.
What was it?
An accident?
No; a fight.

The great swinging lamps over the door of a public-house threw their yellow light on a ring of brutal faces, men and women, for the most part drunk, trampling, hustling, shouldering each other in their haste to break through to the center.