It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. ‘But how do you come here?’ ‘Down on a routine patrol, unluckily for you,’ he answered grimly. He had seldom been more perturbed. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. His number was unlisted and unpublished. “You needn’t be anxious about that! I shall contrive to live. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed.
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