"Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. ‘What Gerald wants with you has me beat. ‘Parbleu, you waste time. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. And experience was slow in coming. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. I must provide for my safety. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment.
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