Directly in range stood the strange young man, although he was at the far side of the loft. Wood set off at full speed from the Mint, and, hurrying he scarce knew whither (for there was such a continual buzzing in his ears and dancing in his eyes, as almost to take away the power of reflection), he held on at a brisk pace till his strength completely failed him. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. He took about five minutes. "He who stands on the verge of the grave, as I do, should never be unprepared. ” “We’ve come past it, miss,” the man answered, with a note of finality in his gruff voice. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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