He declined supper, but took wine. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. It appeared he had already ordered dinner and wine, and the whiskered waiter waved in his subordinate with the soup forthwith. On the next morning—Sunday—the day on which he expected his mother's funeral to take place, he set out along the Harrow Road. “Number 13, please, cabman. She would lure him, as he was an easily tempted child predator who could even more easily be turned into prey. He stopped short with a little exclamation of surprise.
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