It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Ye gods! what a wilderness it is! Every one trying to get the better of every one, every one regardless of every one—it’s one of those days when every one bumps against you—every one pouring coal smoke into the air and making confusion worse confounded, motor omnibuses clattering and smelling, a horse down in the Tottenham Court Road, an old woman at the corner coughing dreadfully—all the painful sights of a great city, and here you come into it to take your chances. One who steals. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. And Capes was thinking that his wife was a supremely beautiful woman. Then he put the paper by. And so Misther Wudd lives near the Black Lion, eh?" "He does," replied Thames.
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