She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. She was listed for the raid—she was informed it was to be a raid upon the House of Commons, though no particulars were given her—and told to go alone to 14, Dexter Street, Westminster, and not to ask any policeman to direct her. Few men could have done as much. One of them was a stout square-built man, with a singularly swarthy complexion, and harsh forbidding features. Wood, who had been absent on business during the greater part of the day, returned (perhaps not altogether undesignedly) at an earlier hour than was expected, to his dwelling in Wych Street, Drury Lane; and was about to enter his workshop, when, not hearing any sound of labour issue from within, he began to suspect that an apprentice, of whose habits of industry he entertained some doubt, was neglecting his employment. Gerald glanced at Hilary and saw the stunned look on his face. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels. “Does he live here?” he asked her presently.
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