There was a strained, eager expression on his face. There was another phrase which sounded something like 'Gin in a blue-serge coat'. “None, I thank you,” he answered. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. "Here is my purse; and I trust you will let me know to whom I am indebted for this important service. ” “I shall always be grateful to you,” he declared. Before Wood had time to inquire into the cause of this sound, his attention was diverted by a man, who rushed past the entry with the swiftness of desperation. Sepulchre's clock struck eight.
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