It was a large, littered, self-forgetful apartment, decorated with unframed charcoal sketches by various incipient masters; and an open bookcase, surmounted by plaster casts and the half of a human skull, displayed an odd miscellany of books—Shaw and Swinburne, Tom Jones, Fabian Essays, Pope and Dumas, cheek by jowl. One morning he caught her hand suddenly and kissed it. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine. "My mother is avenged. Look! Is that some one coming out?” The front door of the flats stood open, and through it a woman, slim and veiled, passed on to the pavement and turned with swift footsteps in the opposite direction. It was the blood she found that cemented her decision that her foster daughter was a criminal. He stopped abruptly. "Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth. ‘Is there a resemblance?’ ‘This is Mary Remenham?’ ‘That is my late niece, yes. " "And I trust you will never have occasion to weep again, my poor soul," replied Wood, setting down his lantern, and brushing a few drops from his eyes, "unless it be tears of joy. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. Reaching the panel, she was able with the aid of her lantern to find the lever at once.
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