We are alone, Sir Rowland," he added, snuffing the candles, glancing cautiously around, and lowering his tone, "and what you confide to me shall never transpire,—at least to your disadvantage. She felt like a dried-up old woman. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. In vain Wood protested his innocence. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. He has got five minutes' start of you. And look, again, at the women one finds letting lodgings. There's nothing on the card to indicate it, but I'm a detective. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals.
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