Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. It was hot and dry. "Thanks to you," said the doctor. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. I'm safe enough if you hold your tongue. I must provide for my safety. His eyes flashed as he turned towards her. Pragmar, the wholesale druggist, who lived three gardens away, and who had been mowing his lawn to get an appetite for dinner, standing in a fascinated attitude beside the forgotten lawn-mower and watching her intently. She agreed entirely with her brother. Wood was unable to discover the figure of the widow, but he recognised her dry, hacking cough, and was about to call her down, if she could not find the key, as he imagined must be the case, when a loud noise was heard, as though a chest, or some weighty substance, had fallen upon the floor. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. She pulled herself together and put her eye to the eye-piece. Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. "She wouldn't let me go.
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