He was snoring stupidly. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. “I shall never be able to thank you. “You’re wanted for questioning, miss. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. He looked at it with uplifted eyebrows, but made no remark. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. It seemed as if all the precautions previously taken were here accumulated. “We won’t. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand.
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