THE PAPERS
afforded him by her easy lightness. "I do want to get in, you know, before anything happens."
"And what," Bight inquired, "are you afraid may happen?"
"Well, to make sure," he smiled, "I want myself, don't you see, to happen first."
Our young woman, at this, fairly fell, for her friend, into his sweetness. "Do let him happen!"
"Do let me happen!" Mr. Marshal followed it up.
They stood there together, where they had paused, in their strange council of three, and their extraordinary tone, in connection with their number, might have marked them, for some passer catching it, as persons not only discussing questions supposedly reserved for the Fates, but absolutely enacting some encounter of these portentous forces. "Let you—let you?" Bight gravely echoed, while on the sound, for the moment, immensities might have hung. It was as far, however, as he was to have time to speak, for even while his voice was in the air another, at first remote and vague, joined it there on an ominous note and hushed all else to stillness. It came, through the roar of thoroughfares, from the direction of Fleet Street, and it made our interlocutors exchange an altered look. They recognized it, the next thing, as the howl, again, of the Strand, and then but an instant elapsed before it flared into the night. "Return of Beadel—Muffet! Tremenjous Sensation!"
Tremenjous indeed, so tremenjous that, each really turning as pale with it as they had turned, on the same spot, the other time and with the other news, they stood long enough stricken and still for the cry, multiplied in a flash, again to reach them. They couldn't have said afterwards who first took it up. "Return———?"
"From the Dead—I say!" poor Marshal piercingly quavered.
423
