ToC On the night of Friday, the 26th of November, 1703, and at the hour of eleven, the door of a miserable habitation, situated in an obscure quarter of the Borough of Southwark, known as the Old Mint, was opened; and a man, with a lantern in his hand, appeared at the threshold. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. Sir Rowland, who had continued absorbed in thought, with his eyes fixed upon the sloop, as she made her way slowly down the river, disembarked more leisurely. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. ‘Oh, my God, she’s gone!’ Wrenching his hand from his friend’s slackened grasp, he darted for the door, Roding behind him. What has been the matter?” “Toothache,” he answered laconically. “I should like to speak to you for a few minutes,” he said to Anna, dropping his voice a little. But I know very well that that word will never be spoken. I don’t play anything. She remembered that she had not gone to bed until two o'clock in the morning.
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