Sheppard's habitation terminated a row of old ruinous buildings, called Wheeler's Rents; a dirty thoroughfare, part street, and part lane, running from Mint Street, through a variety of turnings, and along the brink of a deep kennel, skirted by a number of petty and neglected gardens in the direction of Saint George's Fields. ‘She ought to be. You'll find me at supper. She seemed to think he was merely the paymaster, handing over the means of her freedom. O'Higgins was all that the doctor had imagined a detective to be: a bulky policeman in civilian clothes. “Yes.
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