It was cheating, pitiful cheating. A young woman with a white badge on her arm stood and counted the sections as they entered their vans. "Here, wife—hostess—fetch me that bottle from the second shelf in the corner cupboard. —What do you know of Thames?— Where is he?" "Don't agitate yourself, dearest girl," rejoined the woollen-draper; "or I shall never be able to commence my relation. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. Spurlock had sensed what had gone completely over McClintock's head—that this was the playing of a soul in damnation.
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