“Hello? She’s like, your girlfriend, not mine. And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. It was his purpose to complete four or five stories before he sent any away. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. Then to the Golden Ball, in the same street. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Sydney sprang up. Please yourself. Tell me, Sir," she added, with forced calmness, and grasping Wood's arm; "what has Jack done? Tell me in a word, that I may know the worst.
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