The other, resting on her hip, held a hunting-crop and a pair of gauntleted gloves.
"I bid ye be quiet, Sam Hodgson," she was saying to the expostulating constable.

"Man, if you dare to get in my way, I'll take the whip to ye.

To heel, I say! 'Mr.Rogers's orders ?' Damn your impidence, what do I care for Mr.Rogers?
Why hallo, Jack!--" As her gaze travelled round the room, Mr.Rogers stepped up and addressed the constable across her.
"It's all right, Hodgson: you may go back to your post.

Begad, Lydia," he added as the constable withdrew, "this is a queer hour for a call." But Miss Belcher's gaze moved slowly from the Rector--whose bow she answered with a curt nod--to me, and from me to the figure of Whitmore by the fireplace.
"What's wrong ?" she demanded.

"Lord, if he's not fainting!"-- and as she ran, the curate swayed and almost fell into her arms.
"Brandy, Jack! I saw a bottle in the next room, didn't I?
No, thank ye, Rector.