“Evie,” says Gloria coolly, a quiet smile lighting up her face, “will you see to the horses being saddled at once?” [Illustration] CHAPTER IX. The roar of London’s traffic has died away, for a few brief hours, peace has spread her mystic wings o’er the city of wealth and poverty, pleasure and suffering, joy and pain, virtue and crime. In the sumptuous dwellings of the wealthy, the gentry stretch their pampered bodies on the soft couch of ease and warmth, imitated to a nicety by their dependents. In the dwellings of the middle class, comfort if not absolute sumptuousness is displayed and enjoyed. In the dwellings of the working class, overcrowding and limited space is the chief characteristic, while in the dwellings of the helpless, homeless, and foodless, the vault of heaven is their canopy, the cold flag-stones their couch of rest. Yet above these scenes, so diversified and strange, peace for a few brief hours has spread her wings. The tramp of the tired horse is silent, the patter of millions of feet is still. Even the wandering, homeless, hungry cur is curled up in some byway fast asleep, dreaming, no doubt, of the rich steaks of meat upon which his poor famished eyes had been fixed this afternoon, when the cruel butcher drove him so mercilessly away. But there is a faint glimmer of light stealing through the fast-closed shutters of Mr. Trackem’s private room, in Verdegrease Crescent, and if, like the fairy of old, we obtain ingress therein in some mysterious manner, we shall find that worthy seated in a comfortable armchair, with his head thrown back against a soft cushion, his legs crossed, his elbows firmly planted on the chair’s arms, and his hands lightly joined together. A warm fire glows in front of him, and the smile on his face betokens a thorough satisfaction with things in general, and especially with himself. On the opposite side of the hearthrug is another armchair, likewise occupied, but by a man apparently in by no means so placid and contented a frame of mind as Mr. Trackem. He wears a rough coat and waistcoat of Cheviot wool, and his cord riding breeches and black top-boots are covered with mud and mire. There is blood on his spurs too, which betokens a hard usage of the poor beast that has lately carried him. On the floor lies a brown slouch hat and riding-whip, while by their side is a soft satin cushion, similar to the one against which Mr. Trackem’s head is reclining, and which his visitor has disdainfully tossed on one side. The manner of this man is excited, and he is leaning forward, and speaking fast and rapidly. He is a handsome man, but has not a nice face, and grey hairs are beginning to mingle in his thick beard, whiskers, and moustache, as well as amidst the once raven locks of his hair. He has thick sensual lips, two rows of fine white teeth, and a restless, roving expression in his dark eyes.