"To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. ’ ‘Who were they?’ she asked abruptly. . It did not matter in the least what name the young fellow was travelling under; all James Boyle O'Higgins wanted was the letter H. Martin's on Ludgate-hill, and Christchurch in Newgate Street, were also distinguishable. Come along, you mad jade. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back.
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