It was the very spot from which his poor mother had gazed after her vain attempt to rescue him at the Mint; but, though he was ignorant of this, her image was alone present to him. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. You haven’t had it on your mind all this time?” “I have rather. "What for?" demanded Wood. . There was a sharp knocking at the outside door. The afternoon had passed now into twilight. Spurling, who had been hastily compounding another bowl of punch.
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