” Chapter XIX “THIS IS NOT THE END” “I said some afternoon,” she remarked, throwing open her warm coat, and taking off her gloves, “but I certainly did not mean to-day. I cannot answer that question. That dress! Only a man—and an unworldly one—would have permitted you to proceed on your adventure dressed in a gown thirty years out of date. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. Her mind went on generalizing. Above was a spacious hall, connected with it by a flight of stone steps, at the further end of which stood an immense grated door, called in the slang of the place "The Jigger," through the bars of which the felons in the upper wards were allowed to converse with their friends, or if they wished to enter the room, or join the revellers below, they were at liberty to do so, on payment of a small fine. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Probably a sick man's whim. Wily little devil she is. Meantime, a change had taken place in the weather. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops.
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