The postilion obeyed, and dashed off as hard as his horses could gallop along the beautiful road leading to Neasdon and Willesden, just as the serving-men made their appearance. Armed, however, with the implement he had so fortunately obtained, he did not despair of success. They must have a key. That’s why I come to tell you. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. His hair is oddly streaked with gray —I might say a dishonourable gray.
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