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‘Very well, Kimble. Again having recourse to the centre-bit,—for Winifred's door was locked,—Jack had nearly cut out a panel, when a sudden outcry was raised in the carpenter's chamber. She inhaled a deep breath of air—London air. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. It had rained during the night, and the patch-work pavement was greasy with mud. "I can't tell you!" she replied, blushing deeply, and clinching her little hand as tightly as possible; "it's a secret!" "I'll soon find it out, then," he returned, playfully forcing the paper from her grasp. Tol-de-rol!" As Jack concluded his ditty, the door flew open with a crash, and Thames sprang through the aperture. If she had once known him, if he were some former neighbour, it would be comprehensible. He seemed to be. “I am convinced you haven’t thought this out,” he went on. The arm about her was steel hard, and she felt the weapon that was placed at her heart, which thumped uncomfortably in her chest. He had meant to be master of his fate that evening and it had escaped him altogether. Pierre.
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