He could lose himself for hours at a time. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. Open the window, Thames, and call for assistance. D. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. Wet as he was, he felt if he lay down in the grass, he should perish with cold; while, if he sought a night's lodging in any asylum, his dress, stained with blood and covered with dirt, would infallibly cause him to be secured and delivered into the hands of justice.
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