" "But you will,—won't you?" she rejoined, looking him coaxingly in the face. " "At all events, let me send her away, my dear," supplicated the carpenter, anxious to avert the impending storm. The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. The last observation, however, caught the attention of the carpenter's wife. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “A wonderful piece of work,” he declared. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Groping their way through one or two dark and mouldy-smelling vaults, the party ascended a flight of steps, which brought them to the hall. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. The order was promptly obeyed, and the horses proceeded at a furious pace along the Edgeware Road. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face.
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