Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. “Does Mr. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview. They tracked the fugitive to the Mint; but, like hounds at fault, they here lost all scent of their prey.
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