The concourse extended along Giltspur Street as far as Smithfield. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another. "'T is he!" he mentally ejaculated. "Stop thief!" clamoured the rabble behind. I meant to lie to you. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. The windows were small, and strongly grated, looking, in front, on Kendrick Yard, and, at the back, upon the spacious burial-ground of Saint Giles's Church. Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London.
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