After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. He got out in much the same way from the Gatehouse,—stole the keys, and passed through a room where I was sitting half-asleep in a chair. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. First the passage to be negotiated. This was number 13, Montague Street, familiarly spoken of in the neighbourhood as “White’s. I never want you to be ashamed of me. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted.
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