’ ‘Ah yes. If Thames is murdered, you are his assassin. Couldn’t make head nor tail of that note of yours. “Lucy Albert, sir. Given the proper incentive, who could say that he might not likewise go nobly to some fine end? She thrilled. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. “Tell me,” she insisted, “why you look like that. And, then, forsooth, she must needs prevent your hanging Jack Sheppard after the robbery in Wych Street, when you might have done so. Still, one never could tell. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things.
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