. . carrying what she
gleaned to the paymaster. Was it skill, or was she a child of
Fortune?
And like every gambler, like every adventurer in a life of
hazard, she determined for the favorite of some immense Fatality.
It was an old house she came to, built in the prehistoric age of
London, with thick, heavy walls, one of a row, deadly in its
monotony. The row was only partly tenanted.
She dismissed the hansom and got out.
It was a moment before she found the number. The houses
adjoining on either side were empty, the windows were shuttered.
One might have considered the middle house with the two, for its
step was unscrubbed, and it presented unwashed windows.
It was a heavy, deep-walled structure like a monument. Even the
street in the vicinity was empty. If the biologist had been
seeking an undisturbed quarter of London, he had, beyond doubt,
found it here.
There was a bridged-over court before the house. Lady Muriel
crossed. She paused before the door. There had been a bell pull
in the wall, but the brass handle was broken and only the wire
remained.
She was uncertain whether one was supposed to pull this wire, and
in the hesitation she took hold of the door latch.
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