Just as Jack gained the entrance, he heard a man's footstep behind him, and aware that the slightest indiscretion would betray him, he halted, uncertain what to do. “Have some more port wine, sir?” “It’s a very sound wine,” said Mr. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. You know the danger of this breakneck road as well as I do. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. He must be more or less of an age with this man.
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