132 “I thought you wanted me—you told me so when we kissed in the park!” He cried. A time may come when this little chap will need my aid, and, depend upon it, he shall never want a friend in Owen Wood. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. A strong coarse man, and there were things in his eyes which made my blood run cold with terror. With a small saw, conveyed to me a few days since by Thames Darrell, which I contrived to conceal upon my person, I removed a spike in the hatch, and, with the aid of some other friends, worked my way out. There was no way of recalling the words; so she waited. Guns were impossible. Your history, your actions, nay, your very thoughts are better known to me than to your spiritual adviser. Nobody toys with me. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands.
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