The detective reckoned that his quarry would be up in ten days more. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. It was the grand nursery of vice. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. The latter walked carelessly towards the hatch, and leaning his back against the place whence the spike had been removed, so as completely to hide it, continued smoking his pipe as coolly as if nothing had happened. ” The brutality of his first astonishment was evaporating.
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