’ Chapter Three Captain Hilary Roding listened with only half an ear to the long-winded report being given by Sergeant Trodger, his idle gaze wandering over the congested traffic of Piccadilly and the many pedestrians weaving a hazardous path through it. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. Marvel was almost dislodged from his seat on the coffin by a dead dog, which was hurled against him, and struck him in the face. His baggy shorts sagged over knobby knees that tapered into decrepit Reebok sneakers. " "Alas! that one so highly born should submit to such a degradation?" groaned the knight. Alors, one must steel oneself. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration.
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