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Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you. 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. He spent the remainder of the afternoon looking for a friend whom he found at last in the billiard room of one of the smaller clubs to which he belonged. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. YOU did. Constantly sick with the croup or diaper rash.
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