“You needn’t say a word more,” Mr. Like a petulant child he snapped. "Vill this do?" demanded the constable, taking the candle from the lantern, the better to display the narrow limits of the hole. “That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. In the adjacent apartment Ann Veronica found a middle-aged woman with a tired face under the tired hat she wore, sitting at a desk opening letters while a dusky, untidy girl of eight-or nine-and-twenty hammered industriously at a typewriter. Spurlock had not coached her on this line of conduct.
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