Explore "The Ends of Justice" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The brougham sped on and on into the darkness, until at length it turned into a still darker avenue, at the end of which a flare of light gleamed against the blackness of the night. Evidently his lordship had reached his destination. Cathcart dropped from his perch on to the yielding path, and stood there until his eyes began to pick out objects against the lowering sky. He crouched down under the lee of a belt of shrubs till the hall door of the mansion opened and the brougham was driven away.
A fine place, Cathcart thought; one of those stately homes that one finds nowhere outside the British Isles. But George Cathcart had not come here to admire, or gratify his curiosity. He had a shrewd idea that stern work lay before him ere morning. He fumbled in his pocket for the gold matchbox at the end of his watch-chain. Crouching still lower, he struck a match, and hastily perused the little slip of paper that Russet had handed him.