“But, my dear,” she began, “it is Impossible! It is quite out of the Question. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Earles protested, seating himself before the desk, and dipping his pen in the ink. The one I have is a duplicate. Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. ‘I have justice. ” He spoke loudly.
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