As he took his departure, he whispered to the Jew: "Take him dead or alive; but if we fail now, and you heard him aright in Seacoal Lane, we are sure of him at his mother's funeral on Sunday. Mr. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. . . . “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. The thing rankled in her mind night and day. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. "It's a mercy you both escaped!" ejaculated Wood, only just finding his tongue.
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