She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. And so she came upon the word Love. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle. Sheppard, who had been stricken down by the blow that prostrated her assailant, looked up, she perceived Jonathan Wild kneeling beside the body of Blueskin. It was a neat, efficient-looking room, with a writing-table placed with a business-like regard to the window, and a bookcase surmounted by a pig’s skull, a dissected frog in a sealed bottle, and a pile of shiny, black-covered note-books. “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it IS. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. So I come round the other way and—Lordy, miss, I’m that sorry I made a mull of it.
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