Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. The love-songs of all the ages were singing in her blood, the scent of night stock from the garden filled the air, and the moths that beat upon the closed frames of the window next the lamp set her mind dreaming of kisses in the dusk. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. To be exact, it was just sixteen hours and twenty minutes. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr.
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