"Your son is a lad of spirit, Mr. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. ‘You imbecile. “Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. “I am under police surveillance,” she said.
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