I didn’t ought to have sent for him. Stanley was inclined to think the censorship should be extended to the supply of what he styled latter-day fiction; good wholesome stories were being ousted, he said, by “vicious, corrupting stuff” that “left a bad taste in the mouth. You, sir,” he added, turning to Brendon, “had better take my card round to the police station in Werner Street and ask that Detective Dorling be sent round here at once on urgent business. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. ” “Well?” “Sir John came to me—that you know—and you can guess what I told him. A woman’s shoe lay on the threadbare carpeting.
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