From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff. " "At Tyburn, eh, Mr. ’ Melusine frowned, placing her hand on the letter lying on the table. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. It was impossible. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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