The first time, I overlooked the offence; but the second time, when I had planned to break open the house of his master, the fellow who visited you to-night,—Wood, the carpenter of Wych Street,—he betrayed me. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. But his grief was of short duration. ‘My God!’ he said, ‘I’ll go after them and kill him. At no loss to comprehend that Jack was the individual pointed out by these outcries, two of the nearest of the group made a dash at him. He hesitated.
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