The present divinity of the cellar was a comely middle-aged dame, almost as stout, and quite as shrill-voiced, as the Billingsgate fish-wives above-mentioned, Mrs. She disengaged her hands and stood up. ‘Good God!’ uttered Roding. "I beg pardon, Sir," replied Jack, with the accent and manner of the janizary; "I was betrayed into the exclamation by my surprise that anything in which Sir Rowland Trenchard was interested could have reference to so humble a person as Mrs. Battle, murder, and sudden death—and an old chap like McClintock tuning his piano in the midst of it.
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