They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. By the time he had reached the summit of this hill, he had lost all trace of them; and the ardour of the chase having in some measure subsided, he began to reproach himself for his folly, in having wandered—as he conceived—so far out of his course. He drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull. “Very good,” he said. Remarking that they struck off at a turning on the left, he took the same road, and soon found himself on Paddington-Green. ‘But for now, I’m taking you home. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. "The warrant for his execution is arrived.
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