As the Milvains sat down to breakfast the clock of Wattleborough parish church struck eight; it was two miles away, but the strokes were borne very distinctly on the west wind this autumn morning. Jasper, listening before he cracked an egg, remarked with cheerfulness:<br />&lsquo;There&rsquo;s a man being hanged in London at this moment.&rsquo;<br />&lsquo;Surely it isn&rsquo;t necessary to let us know that,&rsquo; said his sister Maud, coldly.<br />&lsquo;And in such a tone, too!&rsquo; protested his sister Dora.<br />&lsquo;Who is it?&rsquo; inquired Mrs Milvain, looking at her son with pained forehead.<br />&lsquo;I don&rsquo;t know. It happened to catch my eye in the paper yesterday that someone was to be hanged at Newgate this morning. There&rsquo;s a certain satisfaction in reflecting that it is not oneself.&rsquo;<br />&lsquo;That&rsquo;s your selfish way of looking at things,&rsquo; said Maud.