It’s no good hiding it any more. Let us pass, Sir. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. While he was filling his pockets with golden coin from this store, Blueskin had pulled the plate-chest from under the bed, and having forced it open, began filling a canvass bag with its contents,—silver coffee-pots, chocolate-dishes, waiters trays, tankards, goblets, and candlesticks.
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