’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. Stanley lost patience. About the Abbey and Abingdon Street stood the outer pickets and detachments of the police, their attention all directed westward to where the women in Caxton Hall, Westminster, hummed like an angry hive. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. He paid the cab, and turned to follow her. God knows how you did it.
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