It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. ‘I do not know of whom you speak. ToC "How do you mean to act, Sir?" inquired Trenchard, as soon as they were left alone. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified.
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