Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. She walked down the station approach, past the neat, obtrusive offices of the coal merchant and the house agent, and so to the wicket-gate by the butcher’s shop that led to the field path to her home. Mac—the old gossip—knew about everything going on in that part of the world; and if Enschede was anything up to the picture the girl had drawn, McClintock would have heard of him, naturally. His progress, however, was checked by loud acclamations, announcing the arrival of the Master of the Mint and his train. The back windows of the houses (where any such existed) were strongly barricaded, and kept constantly shut; and the fortress was, furthermore, defended by high walls and deep ditches in those quarters where it appeared most exposed. He had bled everywhere, but she had struck when the opportunity was ripe.
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